


Sometimes When We Touch

by Jaybee65



Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: Crack, Humor, Multi, Parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-04-27
Updated: 2002-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-03 05:32:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybee65/pseuds/Jaybee65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strange goings-on in Section One begin to affect all the characters.  A parody of both canon and fanon.  Expect multiple pairings, random walk-ons by minor characters, and even people who don't belong in LFN at all.  Definitely crackfic!  Co-authored by Jaybee65 and Debbie Biv (who is not on AO3 yet.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was created "tag-team" style, with one person writing a bit without consulting the other about what she was going to do, which made for very, um, "interesting" plot developments. There may also be random lurching back and forth between Australian and American spelling. As we are poking fun at the entire series, you can expect (warped) reinterpretations of events from all 5 seasons, which could be construed as spoilery.

The wind was howling outside, but that was nothing compared to the storm that was raging inside her. Nikita was torn, ripped asunder like small bits of tissue paper as she had been so many times before. Her tender, gentle heart as mashed as the potatoes she had eaten with her dinner that night. Why did he always have the power to do this to her? Why? Why? Wasn't it enough that she killed the bad guys on his command and Section's? Did he have to be so cold to her as well?

Why did she always let him affect her with his coldness? Why was she so surprised? Shaking herself mentally, she got up from her perch on the seat and walked over to her radio system and turned it on. It was on a rock station and she was blown away as the words hit. Gasped at the pain as they penetrated her mind. The Toni Basil song was one of her favourites.

_  
'Oh Mickey you're so fine,  
You're so fine you blow my mind  
Hey Mickey! Hey Mickey!  
Oh Mickey you're so fine,  
You're so fine you blow my mind.  
Hey Mickey! Hey Mickey!_

_Oh Mickey you're so pretty  
You don't understand.  
You take me by the heart  
And you take me by the hand...'_

The song continued to play in the background as she walked around her room, staring at the nothingness of her walls.

So blank, so plain, so empty were the walls, just like her life. She swallowed, feeling a lump of melancholy rise in the back of her throat, but then she frowned. The walls weren't _entirely_ blank.... She cocked her head, staring, and could just barely make out the pattern of little black dots. Then she crossed her eyes, and it got slightly clearer. Finally, she stuck out her tongue, and then she saw it! Words, sinister phrases, hidden in her wall!

_Too much junk food is bad for your complexion._

Gasping in horror, she spun around to look at another wall.

_Be sure to drink at least eight glasses of water a day._

Quaking in fear, she looked at the ceiling.

_Don't forget to take your vitamins._

Damn them!!!! And their nefarious subliminal manipulation! Why wouldn't they leave her alone? Isn't it enough that she did what they told her? What more did they want?????

With a cry of rage, and a flourish of her flaxen locks, she rushed to her kitchen counter and yanked out one of the drawers, snatching out a plastic bag full of chocolate kisses. Hands shaking, she unwrapped a handful and stuffed them defiantly into her mouth.

"Take that, Operations!" she shrieked, smacking her mouth loudly as she chewed.

She ate another handful, larger than the first.

"And that's for you, Madeline! You might be able to take my life, but you'll never take my soul!!!!"

Enraged, but bravely defiant, she snarfed down the entire bag. Satisfied, she looked at the empty bag, and then a sob escaped. Chocolate kisses. Just like Michael's. Except, well, chocolate. Tears began to fill her eyes, when she heard a knock at the door. Now what?

She marched to the door and flung it open.

"Ahhh," said Mick, looking at the angry look in her sky-blue eyes and the chocolate smears all over her face, "it must be _that_ time of the month, eh lollipop?"

"What is it Mick? Whaddaya want?" Nikita asked despondently, trying to hide the anger in her heart and the chocolate around her mouth, which in turn hid the chocolate that was now in her stomach.

"Oh, my sweet little Gummi Bear with marshmallow centres, how you continue to wound me with your icy, icy coldness! Tell ole uncle Micky-poo just exactly what is troubling you? Is it that nasty Section again?" Mick continued, pushing past a semi-reluctant Nikita to enter her apartment.

Walking into the room, Mick stopped when he got to her sofa and flopped himself down on it. Resting one arm along the back of the couch, he patted the seat with his other hand and continued cajolingly, "Come sit beside me, my funny-honey-love-button-with-almond-nut-sprinkles. Tell me all about it. I'm all yours. Ready to listen to all your terrible woes. On the ever ready to staunchly defend you at all costs. Standing by your side in the face of adversity. All for one and one for all. No matter how big or how small the problem, I'm there for you Bunnykins. Through snow and sleet and wind and rain and fire and hail and drought and famine and hot and cold. I am there for you...."

"Enough!" cried Nikita. "I get it, Mick, I understand...." and then she stopped as a memory hit her like a giant tidal wave. Michael had sat on that very same sofa just last week, his mouth curving in a seductive smile, his eyes twinkling as she moved to straddle him.... Collapsing on the floor in grief, she sobbed her heart out as Mick sat there watching helplessly.

***

"There you go, sweetie," Madeline cooed, placing a tiny designer hat and coat on one of her beloved bonsai. "Mommy doesn't want you catching cold, now does she?"

She jumped, startled, as she heard her office door swoosh open, and spun around abruptly so that her back hid the dressed-up plant. Operations. _Of course._ Why couldn't he ever knock?

He eyed her warily as she stood by the row of plants.

"I swear you pay more attention to those things than you do to me," he muttered, wishing he had a cigarette.

"Of course not," she laughed breathlessly. "Don't be silly." She frowned. "Did you want something?"

"You're the one who asked me to come down here," he reminded her, wishing again that he had a cigarette.

"Oh, yes. That's right." She walked swiftly over to her computer and tapped a few keys. She then swung the monitor around so that he could see the footage of Nikita gorging orgiastically on chocolate. "Our plan is working," she said smugly. "Soon, she'll be so fat and unhealthy that Michael won't even look at her."

"Excellent!" Operations said, rubbing his hands in diabolical glee. "So the reverse subliminal programming works!"

"Yes. She's so obstinate that she'll do the opposite of whatever we command."

He sneered triumphantly for a few moments, striking a malevolent dark-lord-of-the-universe pose with his hands in the pockets of his Armani suit, as he wished once more that he had a cigarette. But then he frowned. "Remind me again, why are we doing this?"

She sighed in exasperation and rolled her eyes. "Because..." she started, but then frowned herself. Why was it? Was it because Nikita's thrift-store wardrobe offended her refined sense of fashion? Because Michael's efficiency had declined .0000000000054 percent? Because seeing Walter leer like a sixty-year-old teenager made her ill? All of those things were true, but they weren't the real reason. "Because we _can_," she said with a sadistic smile. Yes, that was it.

Operations nodded knowingly. Then a wicked gleam lit up his pale blue eyes, and he bent over to start nibbling on her neck. She pushed him away coldly, and he sighed. Why, why did she always have to torment him so?

"Here," she said, pushing him several feet away and turning him to the side. She then stepped toward him, unbuttoned her jacket, and then seized his head and thrust it against her chest. "The camera angle's better this way."

He looked up and smiled. "What, is George watching again?"

"No. I've had Birkoff set up a live web-cam. We charge $2.99 per minute. So far, we've brought in enough revenue to open up three new substations."

Pulling back suddenly, Operations stared at her with his mouth open in a gob-smacked expression. His long, hard, skilful fingers continued to caress a path from one of her pink tipped breasts to the other as he started, "Madeline! How could you? I am absolutely horrified to think that you think that I think that you think so little of our love that you would broadcast our passionate, lust-filled, erotic sessions to the whole world!"

Bending her back slightly over his arm, he continued his sensual ministrations as he continued to gaze into her face. Which was starting to look a little flushed, with her cheeks pink-tinged, flushed looking, and a little moan and groan escaping as he pinched a bit, as he continued, licking his lips lasciviously, "And I can't believe that you would actually put the money you've made on this little venture back into Section coffers!" Manoeuvring himself back while keeping a steady stroking rhythm on her upper torso, he laid her gently upon her desk as he continued, "Why, with the money I've got from the live web-cam feeds in the Tower and the Perch, I've managed to buy you a little present."

Deftly moving his hand down to her skirt, he raised it up as Madeline breathlessly groaned, "Oh Paullll...you mean...," stopping on that note to stifle an erotic moan as he snapped her garter belt quickly three times against her leg.

"Yes, my love muffin, I have managed to purchase you the islands of the Philippines, along with various companies around the world. As soon as we are rid of the pesky Michael and Nikita problem, you will become the first Armani-clad, Manolo Blahnik-wearing, MAC-accessorised, Queen of your own country. And I believe that the shoe shopping there is to die for!"

***

Michael was despondent, his heart pounding despondently in his manly chest as he sat in his office, surfing the net and avidly watching the new web-cam site he had stumbled across -- "Office Lust One", as he thought of his dear, darling, beloved Nikita. It was so cruel what he did to her. And their song kept running through his mind.

_'The Love Shack is a little old place where we can get together  
Love Shack baby! Love Shack, that's where it's at!  
Huggin' and a kissin', dancin' and a lovin', wearin' next to nothing  
Cause it's hot as an oven  
The whole shack shimmies! The whole shack shimmies when everybody's  
Movin' around and around and around!'_

Yes, those poignant verses of the B-52s truly captured the despondence that he felt so despondently every time he thought of his visits to Nikita's apartment. The Love Shack. Yes, that's what it was. Or rather, what it would be, if he weren't such a deceitful cad, manipulating and stomping on her heart as the Section's dutiful errand boy. She deserved better. _He_ deserved better. Or, no, he didn't deserve better, because he was a deceitful cad, but _she_ deserved better, which meant that he deserved better, too. Or something like that.

He was just about to sigh despondently when he heard a knock at his door. He looked up in curiosity as the door swung open and Davenport stepped inside. The bald, goateed muscle-man stared at the floor, shuffling his feet and clearing his throat nervously, but then looked back at Michael.

"Uh, Michael," Davenport said. "I need your help with something."

Michael looked patiently at Davenport in response.

"Um, you see, I've been ordered to cancel you again. Could you do me a favor and just freeze in place for a moment while I shoot you?"

Michael continued to sit silently, unmoving.

Davenport pulled out a sawed-off shotgun from behind his back, aimed it directly at Michael's chest, and pulled the trigger repeatedly and furiously until he ran out of ammo. The force of the blasts sent Davenport jerking uncontrollably backwards; eventually, he crashed into the wall behind him and toppled over.

When the smoke cleared, Michael stood, walked over to Davenport, and offered the other man a hand to help him up. "Your aim was a bit off," he assessed sombrely.

Tears of gratitude filled Davenport's eyes. "Man, you really are the best."

***

When Nikita finally stopped crying, she looked up at Mick. Perhaps she should tell him what was going on. She could use a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. After all, there was no one else she could talk to. Well, there was Walter. And Birkoff. But they weren't here, and Mick was.

"Operations and Madeline are trying to brainwash me again," she sighed.

"Oh, like when they made you fall in love with that terrorist sleazeball by making you picture him as Michael?"

"Yes, exactly! But how did you know about that?"

"Well, my scrumptious little chocolate truffle, you know how you've been leaving little scribbled notes for Centre in the flowerpot inside the front lobby of our building every time Operations does something that threatens the well-being of Section? Like bleaching his hair so atrociously that it nearly made everyone go blind?"

"Yes," she answered suspiciously.

"I've been the one retrieving your messages, my delectable cotton candy swirl. So I know all about each and every one of your complaints."

"Ohhhhh," she said, nodding. "So you're an agent for Centre, too."

"In a manner of speaking, smoochie-poochiekins." Suddenly, he dropped the Mick persona and straightened his posture. "Actually," he confided gravely, dropping his voice an octave to emphasize just how very, very grave this information was indeed, "I'm Mr. Jones."

"Who?"

"Mr. Jones -- the head of Centre. The Grand Poobah. The suzerain of all I survey. The super-secretest spook of them all."

Nikita made a face and then doubled over with a painful snort of laughter.

"Yeah, right!"

"No, I'm quite serious." He frowned. How could she doubt him? He had used his ultra-grave voice, the kind that always got standing ovations when he did dinner theatre. "Mick is only my alter ego, used so that I can monitor my underlings without their suspecting anything."

Nikita rolled around the floor in hysterics, tears streaming down her face.

"Okay, Mick, you're a funny guy, but that one takes the cake. Why, the only thing that would be more ridiculous would be if you told me that the head of Centre was my long-lost father."

"Um...."

"Or that Birkoff has an identical twin brother who also happens to be a computer genius, except that he has a really silly accent."

"All right, now _that's_ ridiculous. Please, don't insult my intelligence." He reached for his wallet and pulled out a business card, handing it to Nikita. "Here. This should prove who I am beyond a doubt."

_Mr. James Earl Jones  
Chief Bigwig  
The Agency  
Tel: Highly classified  
Email: don'teventhinkaboutspammingme@centre.org_

Nikita looked up and gasped. "Wow! You really are the head of Centre. But why are you telling me this now?"

"Because I want you to begin a secret mission, spying on Section One."

"But I'm _already_ on a secret mission spying on Section One."

"Ah, yes," he said, frowning. "Well, I want you to start a _second_ secret mission spying on Section One. And this one is much more dangerous," Mick continued, licking his lips at the thought of more covert spying. "This mission will be to spy on the mission to spy on Section One. It is a lot, lot, lot, lot, lot, more dangerous."

"More dangerous?" Nikita was dumbstruck with incredulity. "How is that possible? And more importantly will I get to wear some cool new hats and sunnies?"

"Ah yes, my little chocolate dipped, blonde-haired, brussel sprout, you can have as many new hats and sunnies as your heart's content. In fact, why don't we go out shopping right now? I'd like your input into some new pink chintz drapes that I'm thinking of putting around the windows and on the roof in my hot-tub room." Mick looked Nikita lasciviously up and down as he continued, "Oh yeah, my sherbet-filled all day sucker, I _really_ want you in that room! I mean I want your _input_ in that room. What else could I mean?"

Clapping her hands enthusiastically, Nikita smiled and answered, "Oh goody, goody gum-drops - SHOPPING!"

***

Walter whistled while he worked. Just whistled while he worked. It was another great day in Section. The sun was shining -- well ok, so he was situated in a windowless room three miles underground and really didn't know if the sun was shining. The birds were singing -- ok, so once again, that three miles thingy. The bees were buzzing -- hang on, three miles; flowers were blooming -- bloody three miles again. _But wait_, Walter paused in thought, _I may be able to swing this one cause Madeline_ does _have those pot-plants in her office_! Satisfied that he was justified in his thought processes, Walter went back to his whistling while he worked. Just continued whistling while he worked.

And as he continued his happy whistling, he failed to notice all those cute little cartoon-like characters milling around him. They seemed to come out of the woodwork. Rabbits and skunks and deer and Bambi and ducks and geese were all in a flurry. And then, from out of the blue came the pink-tipped surrey. The surrey with a fringe on top. All of them were sitting down and listening and watching Walter whistle happily while he worked. Just listening to him whistle while he worked. Looking at each other and smiling and giggling and -- suddenly they froze in shock, a look of utter horror crossing all their faces at the same time, scattering them all in various and different directions. Back into the woodwork as the sounds of CFM pumps clicking on the floor echoed.

Madeline glided effortlessly into Walter's work area, leaned slightly on his workbench, and breathed quietly in that really quiet scary voice that she could get with no trouble at all, "Walter, do you have my chloral hydrate ready?"

"Suuuuuuure," he said, handing over a bottle of liquid and a dropper. "Whatcha gonna use this stuff for, anyway? There are a lot better sedatives than this available."

"Yes, but this mixes so well into drinks. Like alcohol. Or coffee." She smiled sweetly.

He gulped. "C-c-coffee?"

She didn't answer, but just continued to smile that enigmatic but sinister smile for several seconds; she then turned sharply and walked off, heels clicking ominously into the distance.

_I've got to warn Nikita and Michael_! Walter thought in a panic.


	2. Chapter 2

Taking a deep breath, Michael tapped lightly on Nikita's door. He had finally worked up the courage to go to her apartment and declare his undying love, to pledge to no longer trick and manipulate her, to get down on his knees and beg her forgiveness -- but where was she? She wasn't answering the door -- was she ignoring him? Had she given up on him in frustration over the cold, cruel way he abused her emotionally and twisted her feelings to serve the (admittedly just) ends of their ruthless-means-using masters? Sighing, he turned to leave -- but paused. No! He would not be kept from her side any longer!

Lifting and tensing the supple but strong muscles of his well-developed thigh, he kicked the door to the apartment open and strode determinedly inside. He stood in the centre of the room, smouldering with a musky sensuality as he ran his hand through the soft dark locks of his hair, beads of sweat forming on his perfectly chiselled brow and dripping down to his slightly stubbled but firm jaw, which he clenched and unclenched in fierce determination to defeat all obstacles to his eternal love. He slowly unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt and flexed his gleaming pectorals -- until he realized that she wasn't home. Merde! All that wasted effort posing!

He relaxed and flopped onto the couch to wait, looking in vain for a magazine -- anything -- to pass the time until the love of his life returned. Nothing. Well, what could you expect from someone who didn't have much of an internal life? So he stared glumly at the walls. Stared. Glumly.

_Funny_, he thought. _Why does she have all those black magic marker dots on her walls spelling out basic tips for healthy living?_

Before he could ponder this question any further, the door opened -- no wait, he had kicked down the door -- two figures stepped through the opening where the door once stood. His heart leapt with joy -- Nikita! But then his heart landed with a dismal thwack -- and Mick. Ugh.

He watched as they set down the five dozen shopping bags they each carried -- and then, his Section-trained and mission-honed powers of observation noticed something deeply disturbing. Eerily ominous. Fearfully frightening. Spookily scary.

He jumped up and seized Mick around the neck, lifting him bodily into the air and shaking him about like a little -- but bald -- rag doll.

"Where did you get those black magic marker stains on your fingers?" he demanded.

"Aaaccchhhherrrrrarghhhhhh," Mick gasped, strangling.

Michael opened his hand and Mick plummeted to the floor in a crumpled heap.

"You _will_ answer," Michael said, bending over Mick threateningly. "Or you will die."

"Michael!" Nikita screamed. "No -- what are you doing? How could you attack this poor innocent man, you big bully? You are at least 10 inches taller than he is; your hair is thicker and longer than his is. Your muscles ripple so much more than his do. You wear your jeans down lower on your hips than he does, with a backside so much tighter and firmer than his is. Your green eyes twinkle so much more than his do...hang on, just what colour are your eyes, Mick?"

The only response that Mick was able to give was a small pained groan, which increased to a pained scream as Nikita whirled around to stare at Michael, inadvertently standing on Mick's hand with her 12 inch spiked heel CFM boots with the gold lame faux fur trim in hot fluoro blue. She continued with her tirade, "And how did you get in anyway? I had Walter install an anti-Michael-cold-cruel-operative locking device on my door so that you would be unable to enter my apartment and break my heart once again with your cruel, cruel lies and your callous, uncaring behaviour!"

Rushing towards her with a song in his heart, Michael stopped before her and slowly caressed her cheek, grabbing her other hand with his and doing some sort of little hand-dance thingy as he replied, "Oh, my one true love. The light of my life that gives me hopes to carry on. You light up my days and fill my nights with song. Didn't you know that the anti-Michael-cold-cruel-operative-locking device is rendered useless in the face of a true and powerful love? Wild horses couldn't keep me away from your glorious beauteous side now that I have decided to reveal all my love to you."

He continued to gaze into her eyes, continuing the hand-dance thingy as the faint strains of the hokey-pokey could be heard emanating from his nose. It was a little known fact by Section operatives that Michael, along with all the other super-spy attributes that he had been given by god, could also whistle whole symphonies with his nose with little effort on his part. It truly was a gift from the heavens.

A groan from the slumped form of Mick startled the lovers' manoeuvres mid-hokey, as they guiltily sprang apart. Their eyes spoke volumes between them as their minds echoed the unspoken words _'later, we need to get rid of the dork.'_ They moved as if one, their hands continuing the hand-dance thingy, all the while looking at Mick, when he suddenly spoke.

"Oy, Spyboy, what's the big idea hitting me and interrupting my planned tryst with my luscious cream-filled tootsy roll!"

Michael regarded Mick as he would a buzzing fly, and contemplated tossing the man out the window so that he could return to hand-dance ecstasy. But then he remembered - by destroying the door, he had rendered it impossible to lock Mick out, to keep him from returning over and over again like an annoying flare-up of - well, some thoughts are better left unfinished.

Michael sighed and turned toward Nikita. "Let's go get some coffee," he said, his emerald-green eyes brimming with unspoken meaning.

Then he turned back toward Mick. "You. Wash all the magic marker dots off the walls, or you will die."

Mick gulped and nodded.

***

"Birkoff," Walter said in a low voice as he sidled up to the bespectacled young computer genius. "I need some help."

Birkoff looked up from his work, his mouth full of half-chewed Oreo. "Walter, I'm busy. A certain website," he said, shivering in disgust as he looked up at the Perch, "is getting so many hits that our servers are overloaded. The whole system's slowed to a crawl."

Walter leaned over and whispered in Birkoff's ear. "Michael and Nikita are in danger."

"Yeah, what else is new?" Birkoff scowled. "They're covert operatives, remember? They go out on missions, get shot at, come back with bullet holes that miraculously leave no scars on their gorgeous, tanned bodies, you know the routine."

"No, not that!" Walter whispered more insistently. "They're in danger from _them_," he explained, jerking his head toward the Perch.

"Oh, why didn't you say so?" Birkoff sat up straight, a look of worry filling his face.

"I want you to do a search on all active missions and see what Madeline's using the drug I just gave her for. Search on 'chloral hydrate' and 'coffee' and tell me what you find."

Birkoff's fingers clattered nimbly over the keys. Suddenly a series of file entries spun wildly down the computer screen, faster and faster, until Walter began to grow dizzy looking at it.

"Hey, Walter, can you narrow the search down a little bit?" Birkoff asked. "_All_ the active missions involve chloral hydrate and coffee."

"Okay. Try 'chloral hydrate', 'coffee' and 'Michael'."

Again Birkoff typed and hit his enter key. "Uh-oh," he said. "This is quintuple encrypted. I'm gonna need a password." He sat back in his chair, thinking. What kind of password would Operations or Madeline come up with? Something devious. Something ambiguous. Something misleading. Something so obscure that no one would ever figure it out.

Taking a wild guess, he typed 'password'.

"It worked!" he cried. Then when he saw the contents of the file, his jaw dropped in jaw-droppingly awestruck awe. "Oh, my God, Walter. This is the Cubic Zirconium file! The one with all the secrets! We've hit the mother lode!"

He scrolled through the contents, unsure where to begin reading. 'Marilyn Monroe's Role in Kennedy Assassination' said one entry. 'Whereabouts of Elvis' said another. 'Area 51 Autopsy Results and Bowling Tournament Scores' said yet another.

"There!" said Walter, looking over Birkoff's shoulder. "The entry that says 'Diabolically Evil Plan to Keep Michael and Nikita Apart for No Good Reason Other Than Our Own Sick Amusement'."

Birkoff clicked his mouse on the entry and scanned through the results. "This is terrible! First, they're subliminally conditioning Nikita so that she cares about chocolate and shopping more than she does about having sex. But even worse, they're going to slip sedatives into Michael's coffee to make him groggy, weak, sleepy, and --"

"Unable to perform!" Walter finished, gaping in horror.

***

Davenport wriggled uncomfortably and tugged at the bodice of the hot pink waitress uniform that squeezed his waist just a teensy bit too tightly. He glanced at the restaurant's staff and customers who lay bound and gagged on the floor, and then, with a sigh, brushed a stray hair of the platinum blonde wig he was wearing out of his face. When were Michael and Nikita going to show up at Michael's favourite coffee hangout? Davenport had already been waiting for hours, and he wasn't sure that he could take wearing nylons for much longer.

_No one told me they'd be so hot_! he thought angrily.

Of course, it was his own fault he was wearing the nylons, after all. His instructions had clearly called for one of his female team members to don the waitress disguise, but Davenport had ignored the profile. You see, Davenport had something to prove.

_I can outwit Michael_, he thought to himself. _I know I can do it! No one believes me anymore, but I_ know _I can!_

Hearing the door to the restaurant squeal on its hinges as it opened, he peered anxiously out into the dining area. God, he hoped it wasn't another innocent bystander that he was going to have to subdue and drag into the kitchen. The last one had given him a nasty run in his hose.

Seeing the new arrivals, he relaxed. Ahhh, Michael and Nikita, taking their usual booth. Finally!

He started out toward them with his normal, manly swagger, but then remembered his disguise and switched to a dainty sashay.

_Do waitresses sashay? Or are they too busy?_ he wondered. _Oh, well, no time to think about it._

"Hello, there," he greeted them in his best falsetto, batting his eyelashes at Michael flirtatiously. "What'll ya have today?"

"Coffee. Two." Michael was so entranced with Nikita, and with twirling a lock of Nikita's silky hair in his brawny but sensitive fingers, that he didn't even look up at Davenport. Davenport felt strangely...hurt.

"With cream?" he asked breathlessly.

"Black," said Michael, still not looking up.

"Alrighty then," Davenport said, and sashayed back to the kitchen.

He poured two cups of coffee and took out the bottle of liquid that Madeline had given him. _Okay_, he thought, frowning in concentration. _Now, I'm supposed to pour the liquid from the bottle into Michael's coffee._ He turned the bottle upside-down over one of the cups and then frowned even harder. _Why isn't this stuff pouring out? Hmm, maybe this bottle top thingy is in the way somehow_....

"Idiot!" came an exasperated voice behind him. "Let me do zees since you are too stupide!"

He turned to see a thin woman with spiky red hair glaring at him. "Hey," he said, "I know you! Aren't you Andrea?"

She continued to glare at him balefully, her hands perched on her hips.

"Wait a minute... you're dead!" he said, frowning.

"Mon Dieu!" She rolled her eyes. "Don't you know, zees eez LFN? No one dies -- we merely deesappear for a while unteel we come back in a new form -- like a long-lost seebleeng or a dangerously-misprogrammed hologram!"

He cocked his head in bewilderment. "But...you're not in a new form. You've come back as yourself!"

"Well, tie me down and brand my pretty little ass," she said, switching into an appalling imitation of a Texas twang. "Okay, okay, I'm not Andrea, I'm her clone, Luandrea. Luandrea from Lubbock. Is that better?"

"I guess so...."

But then she pursed her lips in thought and switched back to her French accent. "But wait. Errol Sparks came back from zee dead as eemself. Eef eet eez good enough for eem, eet eez good enough for me! Forget zees clone nonsense."

"Man," he said, shaking his head, "make up your mind."

Her eyes flashed in fury. "Enough! I must ave my revenge! Give me zat bottle so I can drug Michel!"

"No!" he cried, holding the bottle above his head. "_I'm_ going to do it. I have to prove that I can do it without screwing up!"

Andrea began leaping in the air to try to snatch the bottle away, as Davenport ran frantically away from her -- and straight into a table. The bottle flew from his hand and smashed into a wall, its contents spilling out irretrievably.

"Look what you ave done now, imbecile!" Andrea shrieked.

"Ohhhhh, you are in such trouble now, Madeline is gonna be so pissed with you," Davenport breathed in a sexy husky whisper as he unconsciously reverted to his role as a beautiful waitress.

"Wiz me! It waz you, you imbeeezzilee!" roared Andrea, her accent becoming even more gutteral as her rage increased. "But wait, maybeee we can subzitute zomezing else. I know, I ave ere in my utility belt zat I borrowed from ze set of zat ozer show Weetchblade. It containz two azprin, three ticky-tacs, and a chamomile tea bag." She continued on excitedly, "It will not take me too long to whip up a little subzitute now that will work just az well." And off she went to make her evil concoction for our poor unsuspecting heroes.

By this time, Davenport had lost interest in what she was doing, having caught a glimpse of himself in a shiny coffee pot and realised that his lipstick shade was all wrong. Cherry Red clashed something awful with Hot Pink! And so he rushed off to his handy make-up bag for a suitable replacement.

***

Madeline paced her office restlessly, which was no mean feat as she was wearing her bestest, highest, most uncomfortable CFM pumps today. Oh, how she longed for the comfort and softness of her pink bunny slippers! But she needed the added height today. It was so much fun when she was taller than Operations, it gave her a little edge of power, and it thrilled her as well cause he didn't like it when she was taller than him. And besides -- the big CFM pumps showed up so well on the cameras.

She stopped her pacing to stand motionless in front of her plants. Just staring at them. Looking hard at them. Really looking at them, and she frowned when she realised that there were a series of little black dots on them. She gasped in horror and then counted to ten and then to twenty to hold in her anger when she recognised what it was. It was subliminal messages! Somebody had played a reverse psychology trick on her! She grabbed a magnifying glass that she had saved from that time she was looking for Leon and stared hard at the leaves.

It seemed that the words were random thoughts directed entirely at her. Trying to influence her decisions, and that wasn't good. Icy rage settled in her blood stream as the words came into focus.

_Hey man, Michael and Nikita are just living. A bond between two operatives doesn't have to be a bad thing._

_Walter is a love god and you will be his slave._

_Operations is a bad, bad boy and needs to see you in the Tower to be punished._

_Birkoff had nothing to do with this at all it was all Walter's idea._

_Madeline is a chocoholic._

Just then, the door to her office slid open.

"Your order, madam," said Christopher as he made his way carefully down the steps, balancing an enormous covered tray -- so enormous, in fact, that it almost didn't fit through the door.

"My order?" asked Madeline with a puzzled frown. "What order?"

"Why, my special Triple Chocolate Rum Fudge Chocolate Cream Espresso Super Duper Dark Chocolate Decadence Cake," he said, as he set the tray on her desk and removed the shiny metal lid with a flourish. "Or rather, _three_ of my special Triple Chocolate Rum Fudge Chocolate Cream Espresso Super Duper Dark Chocolate Decadence Cakes." He beamed with pride. "I had no idea you appreciated them so much."

She shook her head. "Christopher, I'm sorry. But I didn't order these, and there's no way I'll be able to eat them. You know I don't eat sweets."

Her words seemed to strike him like physical blows, as his smile vanished, his eyes filled with tears, and the corner of his mouth began to tremble uncontrollably. "You mean this is just some sort of sick joke? You sent in an order, got me excited over something challenging to do, made me work and slave for hours to get these utterly perfect, and all for nothing? Just to test me? The way you test everyone else? I thought I was different - that I had earned a certain level of respect. But apparently not. Apparently not." He shook his head angrily, disappointedly.

"But Christopher--" she started, about to explain that she wasn't the one who had sent the order, that both of them were the victims of this nasty little prank -- but then she saw the tears rolling freely down the man's face and hesitated.

He started to sob. "It's not fair! I'm a chef, a real chef -- I went to the best schools, apprenticed in the finest restaurants, mastered the art with my own tears and blood -- and look what I've been reduced to! Every night, Operations orders the same thing. Coq au vin, coq au vin, coq au bloody vin! And you! How much creative satisfaction do you think I get from cutting up fruit slices and celery sticks day after day?"

"But--"

"Just once," he gasped, "just once I thought someone finally appreciated my talents! But no. It was too much to hope for." He collapsed into her chair, hid his face in his hands, and started to bawl like a baby.

She regarded his crumpled form with increasing alarm. For a moment, she considered taking out her gun and cancelling him on the spot -- if only to stop the ear-piercing wails that echoed harshly off the cold, sterile walls of her office. But no, that wouldn't do. Operations liked his coq au vin -- really, _really_ liked his coq au vin -- and would be quite difficult to work with if he were to be deprived of it.

She placed a comforting hand on Christopher's shoulder. "Christopher," she said quietly.

He looked up, tears staining his cheeks.

"Would it make you feel better if I took just one bite?"

He nodded, sniffing softly.

She picked up the fork, dug into the side of one of the towering pastries, and swallowed a mouthful of Christopher's piece de resistance.

Velvety chocolate smoothness. Creamy swirls of delectable sweetness, balanced with a biting hint of rum-and-espresso-aggression. Chocolate chips, chocolate chunks, chocolate hunks -- rivers and streams and pools and waterfalls and lakes and oceans of luscious, sinful chocolate. Stars combusted, solar systems whirled, galaxies spun -- all throughout that dark chocolate ribbon known as the universe. She closed her eyes and held her breath as she was overpowered by a shudderingly rich fudge-ecstasy and swept away into a bittersweet cocoa paradise.

As she fainted dead away, Christopher leapt just in time to catch her.

Back in Comm, Birkoff and Walter huddled in front of Birkoff's computer, watching the scene in Madeline's office unfold.

"Okay," said Birkoff. "One down, one to go. Let's just hope the tobacco substitute you rolled into Operations' cigarettes is just as effective."

***

Meanwhile, back in the Perch, Operations paced slowly around, taking long slow drags of another of his endless cigarettes. Perhaps paced wasn't quite the right description. He danced...no, not quite right either. He languidly looped loiteringly...still not right. He floated, yeah that was it, floated around his office. He could fly! Another one of his before-unknown hidden talents was finally emerging, and like, man, I mean like, it was so rad!

And the walls, oh, the walls were, like, I mean, like totally pretty -- awesomely pretty, actually, as he flew towards them to caress them with his hand. Ohhhhh, his hand was just so cool! It was suddenly almost transparent and he could see the blood and veins and all that icky, yucky stuff oozing around. Oh My God -- his eyes were turning into x-ray eyes! How cool was that -- another talent. He contemplated that thought for another millisecond and then a brilliant flash of light appeared above his head in the shape of a light bulb! Of course, now that he had this x-ray eyes thingy coming to him, he should be able to perve on the sweet delectable form of his darling secret love Maddy!

Oh yes, that was the idea, he would be able to feast his fill from his eyes on her gorgeous body without her knowing -- that'll be fun. Taking another long, slow toke of his ciggie, he grinned evilly at that thought. But then, hey -- wow man -- there was like all these like really awesome little dots on his wall. And man, they were moving and changing colour and everything. Like, oh wow it was so cool; they were changing into little hearts. Little red hearts with words printed in them. Maddy and Paul. Paul and Maddy. And a little arrow through them all. And like awesome man, they were floating all around him. Like love around him. Like love was in the air. And, like all of a sudden it was like a huge symphony with drums and stuff and a song was blasting through his mind. The music reached a crescendo as the song blared from his mind-speakers.

_'Love is in the Air,  
Everywhere I look around.  
Love is in the Air,  
Every sight and every sound  
And I don't know if I'm being foolish  
Don't know if I'm being wise  
But it's something that I must believe in  
And it's there when I look in your eyes...'_

He shook his head to rid it of that god-awful song. But hey man, like, it was so beautiful up where he was. Like so, hey, like who really cared. He floated towards the walls once again as the little black dots seemed to form words, words that seemed to leap out and grab him. Which they were, cause they were also talking to him. Man -- it was just so cool that another hidden power was that he could talk wall. It was, like, a really, really hard language to learn, and like, he knew it really, really easily. Wow man, the words were so...profound!

_Operations is a big fat mama's boy!_

_Madeline likes to spank._

_The Tower, the Tower, my kingdom for an hour with Madeline in the Tower!_

_Michael and Nikita are the goodies._

_George is the big giant head._

Oh, his head started to ache. So many rules -- so little time to care. He then smiled evilly to himself once again as his x-ray eyes kicked in again. Floating towards his Perch exit, he flew his way towards Madeline's office. She'd be really impressed with his new secret powers.


	3. Chapter 3

"Michael," said Nikita petulantly, "I think that waitress forgot our order."

"It's possible," he agreed, still twirling a lock of her golden hair so that it shone mesmerisingly in the cheerful fluorescent light of the restaurant.

"Well?" she asked. "Aren't you going to do something? We can't wait here forever."

He considered her statement. For him, entranced with her gleaming locks, captured by the azure blue of her oh-so-innocent eyes, a prisoner of the shocking exquisiteness of her ivory skin and ruby lips, there was no such thing as the passage of time. He _could_ wait forever, if forever held such bliss. What was time, after all, in the face of the eternity of their love?

But then his phone beeped. Actually, it had been beeping repeatedly, but he had ignored it, content to let the world go by as he gazed at the face of Beauty. This time, reluctantly, he flipped it open.

"Oui," he answered softly.

"Michael, thank God!" Birkoff cried. "I've been trying to call you for hours. I thought you'd never answer!"

He half listened to the telephone and half admired Ni-ki-ta as she played with the sugar packets at their table, building a little sugar-packet pyramid. A pyramid, fit for the temptress of the Nile that she was. Not that she was from the Nile, or had ever even been there, but my she was a temptress --

"Helloooooooo, Michael, are you still there?" Birkoff demanded.

"Yes," he said softly.

"Look, Walter and I have created an _opportunity_ for you, if you know what I mean. For the next few hours, certain, um, _people_ here at Section are going to be too distracted with other things to be bothering you, if you know what I mean. Do you know what I mean?"

"I know what you mean," said Michael, and hung up.

He stood, held his hand out to Nikita, and helped her out of the booth. "No time for coffee. Let's go."

***

Greg Hillinger smiled to himself as he listened, secretly, to Seymour's conversation with Michael. Oh, Seymour, Seymour, Seymour -- what a moron he was. Not like him -- Greg -- the genius to beat all geniuses. While Seymour and that old geezer Walter were busy playing Cupid for Michael and Nikita, he, Greg, had taken advantage of Seymour's handy decoding of the password to the Cubic Zirconium file. Not to read the boring stuff like how Madeline and Operations were going to drive Michael and Nikita apart, then slowly force them back together, then drive them apart again, then force them back together really fast, then drive them back apart, et cetera. No. Who cared about that kind of stupid crap? No, Greg had been reading the good stuff. Finding the skeletons in the closet, the dirt swept under the carpet, the cobwebs hidden behind the curtains -- yeah, the stuff that mattered. The stuff that George was going to reward him for finding -- big time.

He salivated a bit as he pictured himself driving his cool new Jag, babes aplenty in the passenger seat next to him. Yep, George was going to have to pony up for this intel, that's for sure. Greg had hit the jackpot. Because you see, Greg had discovered Section One's deepest, darkest secret. The secret that Operations and Madeline had been hiding desperately from George.

No, no, not that Adrian had been turned into a human popsicle up in the freezer on Level whatever-it-was. No -- the _real_ secret. The secret to end all secrets. The secretest secret of all the secret secrets that had to be kept secret.

Section One didn't fight terrorists.

Not even occasionally.

There was no such organization as Red Cell. Or Bright Star. Or Glass Curtain, the Freedom League, or any of the other absurdly named organizations that Section One _claimed_ to be fighting. They were all frauds. Invented for the sole purpose of justifying Section One's continued existence. The 'missions' that Section One's operatives went on were, in actuality, elaborate hoaxes, with the same 'terrorists' showing up, again and again, pretending to be killed while Section One's operatives fired blanks at them. Not that the operatives realized this -- no, most of them were so stupid that they didn't realize that the scruffy-looking bad guys that they killed, week after week, were always _the same people_ each time.

But now, Greg knew. He knew that it was all a huge set-up. Operations and Madeline pulled the wool over George's eyes so that they could continue receiving a budget of hundreds of millions of dollars to spend on whatever they wanted.

At first, Greg had considered blackmailing them -- to get just a tiny little share of that illicit funding for himself. But then he had continued reading the Cubic Zirconium file, and came to the entry marked: 'Jurgen, Explosion Of.' Hmmmmm. Blackmail didn't seem to be such a good idea after all. So instead, he was going to rat them out to Georgie Porgie, and collect his ample reward.

Now, if he could just decide how he was going to spend it. Would he look better driving a Jag or a Porsche?

***

"My-kol, where are we goin, what are ya doin, why are we runnin. Jeez, me arm's bein ripped outta its bloody socket!" Nikita whined as Michael raced her back to her apartment. The quickness of their steps had caused Nikita to revert back to her native accent, the one that Section One had tried so hard to exterminate. But deep down, deep, deep, _Deep_ down she had never really lost it. And in times of stress, or too much physical exertion, she reverted back to the nasal twangs of her Aussie drawl. Michael wished that he could say that the twangs were music to his ears, but that would be a lie, a lie that he would no longer be able to perpetrate. He had decided that no longer would he lie to his precious love. His beauty. His all-encompassing-one-true-light-of-his-life. His soul mate. His eternal flame. The one who made his days seem brighter, his nights seem lighter. The one who put a smile on his face. The one who was the other half of him. The one who....

"My-kol! Whaddayathinkyadoin? I'm gonna break me flamin' neck any goddamn minute, if ya don't bloody-well slow down!" Nikita stopped abruptly where she was, crossing her arms across her body as she looked at him. Really looked at him. God he was so beautiful! The sun shining from behind him made it seem as though he had a halo -- a halo of golden shining light. Like a picture of Michelangelo, the perfect man. His green eyes twinkled in the sunlight and seemed to look right into her very soul. His beautifully chiselled jaw, his pouting sensuous lips, and his body. Oh lordy, lordy, lordy -- that body! It was just absolute perfection! A gorgeous torso, made up of sinewy muscles that were all, well, sinewy. Glorious pectoral muscles and strong manly shoulders, leading to well-muscled arms that led to really sensuous hands, with long, long, long fingers.

And what he could do with those fingers! Oh, he could create such ecstasy in her body, playing her like his cello. She looked up and down him again, and stared at his hips and crotch. Oh, such firm hips that led to a nice tight little butt, with nice tight little buns of steel. Well, not that she could see his butt from the angle she was looking at him from, but she knew where it was. Nikita continued to stare at his crotch, knowing _exactly_ what the zipper of his jeans concealed and a little smile crossed her lips at that thought. Her reverie was interrupted as Michael finally answered her.

"Ni-ki-taaa, I have just received valuable Intel that will save the world as we know it, but it seems that we will have to go dark for a few hours, and the only place that we can go dark is your apartment," Michael answered, gazing at her intently and holding out his hand for her to take.

"Oh, well, in that case, lead on!" And taking his hand once again and entwining her own fingers in his long, long, long fingers, she walked beside him on their way back to her apartment to go dark, which, it seems, they could only do in her apartment. Go figure.

***

Back at Section One, the operatives milled about worriedly, forming little clustered groups here and there, murmuring anxiously to each other, and then breaking up and reforming in different little clustered groups to repeat the same process. The rumours coming out of Medlab were disturbing, worrisome, frightening -- Madeline in a coma, kept alive only with a respirator; Operations in a straightjacket, cackling maniacally and snapping at invisible flies with his mouth; and, worst of all, Michael nowhere to be found, no longer even answering his phone. Which left...whom in charge?

"Well, I've got seniority," Walter pointed out.

"But I know our systems better than anyone," countered Birkoff.

"According to Protocol 87(e)(iii)(P), _we're_ in charge," announced a reedy voice behind them.

They turned to see Frick and Frack standing shoulder to shoulder, their usual blank expressions replaced with a subtle -- but bloodthirsty -- glee. The female torture twin stiffly held out Section's rulebook for Birkoff to inspect. Hands trembling, Birkoff read.

"Oh, my God -- they're right! They're next in the chain of command right after Michael!"

Frick and Frack whirled about in perfect unison and began to march in synchronous perfection across the floor, barking out shrill orders. Before them, like a parting wave, the clusters of operatives broke apart and scattered in every direction, shrieks of terror echoing off the hard walls.

Walter scratched his chin in thought. "I think we might have miscalculated a bit here, amigo."

"We've got to get a hold of Michael!" Birkoff's voice was high-pitched in panic.

"Uh," said Walter, shaking his head, "I don't think Michael's going to be reachable for a while. And by that time, I don't think there's going to be anyone here with all of their body parts left."

"Well, then, what do we do?" Birkoff's glasses steamed up in fear, as he began hyperventilating.

"We're gonna have to bring back Operations and Madeline."

"How?" Birkoff seized Walter by the arms. "How?"

"Well, whipping up an antidote for the LSD-laced cigarettes shouldn't be _too_ hard, but as for the overdose of chocolate, I dunno. But I'd better think of something quick. Otherwise," he gulped, looking over at Frick and Frack as they snagged a slow-moving operative by the collar and started to drag him, kicking and clawing, down toward the White Room, "we're all gonna be in trouble."

***

George's face turned white, then red, and then purple with fury. "You're telling me what?!?!?!?!" he exploded.

"Section One's been pulling your leg, old man," said Greg, smiling triumphantly. "Running a big-ass scam."

George stared at him for nearly a full minute, his eyes bugging and his eyebrow twitching. Just when Greg thought he was about to keel over in a stroke, George stood up and started waving his arms angrily.

"You idiot! Of course these groups exist! I'm a member -- I mean, I monitor them myself!"

Greg frowned. "Well, not according to this little file, they don't." He whipped out a CD and held it up to the light.

"Give me that!" snapped George, snatching the disk and inserting it into his computer. Sitting down again, he scanned the file for a few moments and then sighed. He turned back to Greg, glowering ominously. "Did you notice the name of this file, by any chance?"

"Yeah. Cubic Zirconium. What about it?"

"Do you know what Cubic Zirconium _is_?"

"It's that stuff you see on those home shopping channels. You know, the fake jewellery."

"It's a fake _gemstone_, to be exact," George hissed.

"Huh?"

"You moron! This is a plant! A fake file, meant to lead us off the track of the real thing! The _real_ secrets are in the Gemstone file -- which I recall asking you to get for me, by the way. Everything in here is made up!"

"You mean, the President of the United States isn't really a vampire?"

"No!"

"Elvis isn't leading a secret expedition to Mars?"

"No!!"

"Operations doesn't really have 666 tattooed on his ass?"

"Not that I know of. Although I haven't looked," George admitted with a shudder. But then focusing his attention back on Greg, he leaned forward menacingly. "I _thought_ you were the wave of the future. But you disappoint me, Gregory."

"No, please, Uncle George, just listen to me. I can find the file I know I can. I am better than Birkoff; I know I am I just know it! I am the mostest brilliant computer hacker/programmer in the whole wide world. Please, just listen!" Greg pleaded pitifully. He thought about adding some real tears as well, but hung off until he saw how his pleading was going.

George pulled himself up to his full height, which compared to the rest of the Section's operatives was quite miniscule actually. George was only 5 foot 4 inches, which would explain why he was such a grumpy old bugger -- he was obviously suffering from that age-old phobia Small Man Syndrome. So he pulled himself up to his full height which looked even bigger cause he was standing on a wooden Oversight-issued crate, glaring down at Greg ominously, his face turning red, then scarlet, then purple and then really ugly blotchy like with rage as he managed to spew out venomously "_JUST WHAT DID YOU CALL ME_?"

"Uncle George," Greg answered nervously. Swallowing against the lump in his throat he continued, "That's what it said in The Cubic Zirconium file. That you were my uncle, George."

"You stupid moron!" George bellowed. "I have just got through telling you that the file is a complete fake -- and let me just explain it to you one more time. If the whole file is a fake, then that means that _everything_ in it is a lie. And I am not related to you in any way. You're still disappointing me Gregory -- and I don't like to be disappointed."

"So I guess that the whole section in that file that explains how you and Adrian are Nikita's real parents was a plant too," Greg continued whiningly.

"WHAT!!!" And with that exclamation, George fainted dead away.

***

Meanwhile, back at Nikita's apartment, our stunningly beautiful heroic couple were oblivious to all the drama and tension unfolding at Section One. And if they did know the truth, they wouldn't have cared at the moment, cause they were both lost in each other's eyes. Green eyes stared soulfully at the blue eyes. And the blue eyes stared soulfully back into the green eyes as they stood in Nikita's living room. It seemed that while they were away, the door had repaired itself miraculously, as things were wont to do in the continuing universe of LFN. Continuity be damned!

But there they both stood, gazing soulfully into the other's eyes. Green eyes gazed soulfully at blue eyes. And blue eyes gazed soulfully at green eyes. Then suddenly Michael moved, slowly, slowly, slowly raising his hand to softly, gently, worshipfully, caress Nikita's check as he brought his other hand into play, continuing that hand-dance thingy that he had started before. The soft strands of the Hokey Pokey could be heard softly in the background, emanating from Michael's nose again. Another of Michael's hidden talents was that he was also able to throw his voice, or his nose music.

_You put your right hand in  
You put your right hand out  
In, out, in, out  
And shake it all about..._

"Come, Nikita, let us take a long, sensuous, luxurious bath together," invited Michael.

"Ooooh, Michael, that sounds delicious," she agreed.

He took her hand and led her, slowly and sensuously, to the bathroom, which had miraculously expanded to the size of a small theatre. In the centre of the room stood an enormous Jacuzzi, full of steaming, swirling water. Odd. She didn't remember having a Jacuzzi. Oh, well -- Section had been redecorating again, obviously. At least a Jacuzzi was better than the scary artwork they kept hanging on her walls.

"Last one in's a rotten egg!" she cried. Running toward the Jacuzzi, she began stripping off her clothes until she saw movement in the water -- not the normal swirls, but strange, bursting bubbles. She stopped dead in her tracks as a woman suddenly emerged from beneath the bubbles, wet and glistening.

"Are you ready for a rematch?" asked Aurora in a sultry voice.

Nikita screamed in horror and fury. "How did you get into my bathroom?!" she demanded.

"Well," admitted Michael, "I invited her. I thought it might be interesting, my sweet."

"You depraved pervert! How dare you!"

"I am not depraved, Nikita," said Michael. "I am French. There is a difference."

At that, Nikita slapped him across the face and ran from the room sobbing.

"Wait!" Michael cried, following her. "I will send her away! Don't leave!"

***

"If someone doesn't let me out of the %$#*%&amp; straightjacket _this instant_, the entire #@$%#*&amp;%% Section is getting cancelled!" bellowed Operations from the small room where he had been restrained.

"I think the LSD antidote has kicked in," said Walter as he waved smelling salts in front of Madeline to no avail. "You'd better go let him loose."

"Why me?" asked Birkoff. "Why can't you go?"

"Because I'm busy," answered Walter, setting aside the smelling salts and picking up a stun gun.

Birkoff, reluctantly, slunk off, leaving Walter to his work.

_Bzzzzzzt_! went the stun gun. No reaction.

_Bzzzzzt_! again. Nothing!

Damn! The stun gun didn't wake her up either -- she seemed impervious to everything! What next?

Maybe some really loud, really annoying music, he thought, reaching to switch on a CD player on a nearby table.

_'At the Copa/Copacabana/The hottest spot North of Havana....'_

Just as Walter covered his ears so he wouldn't have to listen to any more of that tune, the music switched abruptly off.

"Let me take care of this," said Operations grimly. He marched over to Madeline's bedside, grasped her hand, and caressed her cheek tenderly. "Madeline," he whispered, "listen to me. The POS numbers have slipped .00000000000000003 percent."

She didn't wake, but stirred slightly.

"Attrition levels in Housekeeping have jumped a full point," he added.

She moaned softly, frowning.

Concentrating and clasping her hand harder, Operations continued. "And we have personnel redundancies in twelve departments. We're becoming bogged down with deadwood."

Her eyes snapped open. "Deadwood? Where?"


	4. Chapter 4

"Ohhhhhhh," groaned George as Greg slapped him on the face to bring him to. "How could they know?" he moaned. "They _can't_ know -- no one does. It must have just been a lucky guess."

"Know what?" Greg asked, helping George back to his feet.

"Nikita really _is_ my and Adrian's daughter. But no one must know about this -- especially Mr. Jones."

"Why?"

George sighed. "Because Jones thinks that Nikita is _his_ daughter. That's why he had her recruited, that's why he's going to promote her to the leadership one day. Little does he know that it's really _my_ daughter he's promoting."

Greg made a face of disgust. "You mean Adrian and Jones had an affair at the same time you and Adrian were having an affair? Damn, this place really is a soap opera."

"No, no, no," George said, shaking his head. "Jones and Roberta Wirth had a daughter at the same time Adrian and I did. But we..." he hesitated, and lowered his voice, "arranged for the babies to be switched at the hospital. That way _our_ daughter would be able to take over everything!"

"What happened to Jones' real daughter?"

"Oh," said George, laughing, "she works for us, too. A computer specialist named Kate Quinn."

***

As Nikita ran sobbing from the room, Michael realised that he had made a fatal mistake with his beloved. How could he have been so stupid? How had he misjudged Nikita so badly? Didn't he know her at all? The chasm of dark filled pain that opened up in his chest at the thought of how he had hurt his one, his only, was an aching pain that was a big chasm of dark filled pain. He had to make it right. He _had_ to get her back, to apologise, to get her back so that he could show her just how much she really meant to him. To worship her body with his body as the temple of adoration that she was. She mattered, oh god how she mattered, to him. He loved her, adored her, worshipped her, cherished her, idolised her, beloved her, longed for her, was awed by her -- besides he was getting really, really horny!

Grabbing a bath mat from the gold-plated heated towel rack, he made his way to the Jacuzzi, where Aurora waited nervously. Reaching down his hand in a gentlemanly gesture -- he was, after all, a French gentleman -- Michael helped her rise from the tub. Holding out the bath mat for her to step into and cover herself, Michael said, "Please, dry yourself off and leave this room. I have made a grave error in judgement. If you wait in Nikita's living area, I will fetch Nikita and explain that I have made a mistake and we will try and free you."

Aurora looked at him, perplexed. "Free me? What do you mean free me? Listen buster, I work for myself now and I don't care just what happened here! I will be paid my scheduled fee of $15000 US dollars in gold latinum, wet or dry. Is that understood? Now, I suggest you go find Nikita and work this out and I will wait for you, cause I'm not going anywhere without my money!" And with that, she flounced out of the room, muttering dark gypsy curses under her breath.

Michael wasted no further time thinking about Aurora, he had to find Nikita. His love. His one. His only. Oh, he was a cold heartless bastard to hurt her so, that delicate flower of womanhood. The light of his life. The one that he would forever adore, until the sun would no longer shine and the stars no longer sparkle and twinkle in the night sky. But where would she go? How far would she run from him to escape the pain that he had caused his exquisite beauty? Who could she turn to in her dismay? He knew that it couldn't be her old best friend Carla who used to live close by - cause she was dead. Killed at the end of the second season. And as far as he knew, TPTB hadn't had time or a plotline planned to bring her back. Not that that made any sort of difference to the continuity of LFN. So whom else could she turn to? Who else that she knows lives nearby? And then, like a bolt of lightning from the heavens above, he knew. He knew just whom it was that she would run to. Steeling his lips in a grimace of grim determination, Michael made his way stoically towards the one place that Nikita could be.

Mick Schtoppel's apartment.

***

When Nikita had run crying from her apartment after slapping Michael, she had only one thought in mind _'I need some comfort'_ and she knew that there was only one person who could give her this comfort apart from Walter, who was stuck in Section One and it was too far to run in her 12 inch spiked heel CFM boots with the gold lame faux fur trim in hot fluoro blue. So she turned and ran to the only person who was close enough to her, cause her feet were _really_ starting to hurt. And that one person was Mick Schtoppel. Oh sure, he was a slimy, greasy, queasy, English git, but he was all she had at the moment.

So she stumbled, with her tear-stained eyes, which were making it really hard to see, towards Mick's door and threw herself upon it, prostrate with grief at how cruelly Michael had once again treated her. She knocked on the door with her open palm as tears once again blocked her eyes from seeing too clearly. But she was gratified to see that Mick answered her door in a few short moments and she didn't have to stand there in her prostrate with grief position for too long. Cause it really wasn't that comfortable.

Suddenly, the door opened, and Mick took one look at Nikita prostrate with grief and exclaimed, "Why, my little marshmallow-creamed centre chocolate-nut bunny, whatever is the matter?"

***

"So, Walter, Birkoff, what do you have to say for yourselves?" asked Operations, aiming a steely stare at the two trembling operatives.

"We're so sorry!" they cried in unison, dropping to their knees in fear. "Please don't cancel us! It'll never happen again!"

"Of course it won't happen again," said Madeline, deliberately sending mixed signals to screw with their minds by crossing her arms and yet smiling warmly. "We accept your apology. Now, please go."

With a look of confusion that turned to relief when they realised they weren't being punished, but then turned to fear because they figured the punishment would just be drawn out over a period of months in countless horrible ways, they scrambled up and fled the Perch, shoving each other aside in their desperation to get out of the room first.

Operations turned to Madeline with a look of annoyance. "Why did you let them go like that? I wanted them punished in some vile, humiliating, unspeakable manner!"

"Occasionally," she answered with a mysterious smile, "we have to let them off the hook for no reason whatsoever. That way we appear arbitrary and omnipotent."

"Ahhhh, of course!" he said with an approving nod. "Now let's go stand by the windows and look out over the floor menacingly while we tell knock-knock jokes."

***

"So, let me get this straight," said Greg, frowning. "Quinn -- the one who happens to be utterly ruthless and self-centred to the point where she would do _anything_ to claw her way to the top -- is _Jones'_ daughter, and _Nikita_ \-- the one who would never harm an innocent, even to save, like, thousands of people -- is yours?"

George paused in thought. "Now that you put it that way, it _is_ a little odd." He shrugged. "I guess genes don't count for everything."

"Uh, so just who did this little baby switchie-poo at the hospital?"

"Walter. He did so well _separating_ babies at birth, I thought he could handle switching them, too."

"Jeeze, George," said Greg, shaking his head, "you entrusted _Walter_ with that task? During the Seventies? I doubt that he even _remembers_ any of the Seventies. I think you'd better do a little DNA testing to be on the safe side. And fortunately, I know how to do that, since I'm a fantastical genius and all. All you have to do is give me your system password so I can access everyone's files to get their DNA samples."

"I'm not giving you my access code!" snapped George. "That would be a Class Ten security breach!"

"Okay," said Greg with a shrug, getting up to leave, "then I guess you'll never know."

"Wait, wait!" George called out after him. "All right." He sighed. "My access code is 'Hey_there_Georgie_Girl'."

Greg tried to stifle a snicker but failed.

"I happen to _like_ that song," said George, glaring at Greg. "It's poignant."

Smirking, Greg walked over to a computer panel set into a nearby wall and began typing furiously. After a few minutes, he began to laugh.

"Sorry, Uncle George -- no switcheroo after all. Walter screwed up. Quinn's yours, and Nikita belongs to Jones after all."

George scowled. "I _told_ you not to call me Uncle, dammit!"

"Sorry -- the DNA test says otherwise on that, too," Greg said, grinning.

George blanched for a moment, but then sighed. Great - now he had _two_ greedy and manipulative relatives working for him. He cleared his throat. "All right, I need to fix this. I am _not_ going to let Jones install his daughter as the leader of this organization. That'll happen over my dead body!"

"Yeah, well, I don't know what you're going to do to stop it. Your girl's stuck in the IT ghetto, while Miss Jones is on the management track."

George wrinkled his brow in thought, but then smiled an evil, sinister, really, really creepy smile, the kind of creepy, sinister smile that only he, with his years of practice as the sinister overseer of Oversight, could really manage. It was a sinister smile that he was really, really proud of in fact, that he practised each morning in the mirror after he flossed his teeth. A sinister smile that sent his employees cowering in terror. That caused small schoolchildren to hide behind their mothers' skirts. That started hounds baying on moonlit nights. That -- well, you get the idea.

"Well," he said, "I just happen to know a Red Cell plastic surgeon -- not that I hang out with Red Cell, or anything," he added hastily, "who can make anyone look like anyone." He rubbed his hands together in glee. "Maybe the switch didn't get done at birth, but who's to say it's too late now?"

Just then, they were both distracted by the heralding of trumpets that sounded like a fanfare of some kind. Startled, they then heard the clomp, clomp of marching feet. Their mouths dropped open in jaw-dropping awe as around the corner a bevy of guards dressed up like Roman centurions appeared. There were 8 guards in total, two in the front carrying trumpets, which they were toot-tooting. Then four guards next, each holding a handle so that they could carry the glass square cabinet, and another two guards behind them also carrying trumpets that they were toot-tooting. George and Greg continued to watch as the guards marched towards them and lowered the glass square to the floor. Then they both gasped in horror -- one of those really big gasps that you just _know_ means that they were horrified.

For couched in the glass square, which was see-through because it was glass, was something so horrific that it caused them to gasp. Or maybe it was made out of really strong PVC clear plastic. But whatever it was made out of didn't really matter. Because what was inside it caused both Greg and George to gasp that big horrified gasp again. It was a horror too huge to really think about for too long, cause it was just too horrific. So they gasped with horror, and then stared at the glass square. Or the plastic square, and then trembled as the figure inside spoke to them in a deep, electronically modified voice.

"Hello, George," Jerome said. "Oversight has sent me back from Section Four again to help you solve your little problem. It's the least I can do -- I am, after all, the C-Clone." And both George and Greg stopped their trembling and started doing the hustle as Jerome fixed them with a really hard stare -- the type of stare that causes someone's eyebrows to point downwards like little daggers as they frown.

***

Back at the coffee shop, Davenport and Andrea had failed to notice that Michael and Nikita had left after the phone call from Birkoff. It seems that Andrea's formula to come up with a suitable substitute for the spilled chloral hydrate had taken longer than they had both anticipated. By the time Andrea was satisfied with both the colour and consistency of the substitute, our illustrious heroic couple had departed for greener pastures.

Now, Davenport stood in the kitchen, his head hanging down despondently while Andrea raged at him. Actually, he really didn't give a fig about Andrea's tirade, he was hanging his head despondently cause he realised that despite his best efforts, another run had appeared in his hose. _Damn -- and these were his best nylons_! Also, it seems that his make-up purse had been pilfered and there was no other lipstick available, so he was stuck with Cherry Red. He'd just have to wiggle his hips that much harder to distract from the awful combination of a hot-pink waitress uniform that clashed with the wrong lipstick. Shaking his head despondently, he suddenly became aware of Andrea's rage-filled tirade.

"Eeee-diii-ottttt, you are ze beegest eee-diii-otttt on zis hole planet! Ow can you ave let zem ezcape! Ow! Ow! First you are ze cause of zis terrible dizazter, and now you ave let zem ezcape!" Andrea prowled around the room, throwing all the Brazilian coffee grounds on the floor in her rage as she continued. "Zis iz ze reason zat Michel will alwyz be a igher level zan you -- you let zem ezcape!"

This time, she had gone too far! Davenport glared at her, fixing her with an icy, steely glare as he answered her with his lips barely moving, "This contingency was factored into the mission, and the profile adjusted accordingly. Check my panel if you don't believe me!" Reaching down into his waitress apron, which was a becoming shade of lilac that contrasted nicely with his ensemble, he pulled out his panel and thrust it in front of her nose. Davenport smirked slightly to see the look of awe and wonder seeping into Andrea's eyes as the Intel on his panel penetrated her brain and its meaning became clear.

"You mean...." Andrea sputtered, as she turned back to face him, suddenly finding that his hot-pink waitress attire made him strangely attractive to her.

"Yes," he replied, "I managed to coat their favourite booth with a new liquid tracking device that is so super secret it hasn't even been released on the market yet. All we need is an Internet connection and we will be able to track them from twenty five miles away!" And with that, they looked at each other and smiled evilly, both having been the last graduates of Madeline and Operations evil-looks-and-smiles-from-Section-Operatives course.

_Hmmm_, she thought, _maybee zees beeg bald muscle-man eez not such an eediot after all_....

_Hmmm_, he thought, _maybe if I start acting evil I'll get all the crazy horny chicks that Michael rejected_....

***

"Oh, Mick," cried Nikita, "Michael has broken my heart so cruelly and coldly! Why, this time he--"

Before she could finish, she noticed that Mick had stopped looking at her and instead was staring in fear at something behind her -- in fact, Mick seemed so frightened by what he saw that he began trembling and quaking and quivering like a little sodden mass of Jell-O.

"No, Michael," Mick begged, "don't toss me out a window or a door, or through anything plate glass, or into anything sharp or really, really hot -- I promise you I scrubbed off every single one of those black dots on the walls of Nikita's apartment! I swear! And I've got no idea, really I don't, how they got there in the first place. Absolutely no idea whatsoever!"

"I am not here to talk to you," said Michael.

Nikita whirled around to face Michael, tears of anger streaming down her face. "How could you!" she sobbed. "It's bad enough when you abuse me at the behest of Section, but this was on your own time!"

"We need to talk," he said, grasping her by the hand and dragging her past Mick into Mick's apartment.

"Hey!" called Mick. "I haven't had a chance to tidy up! Why don't you go back to your own--"

But then the door slammed in his face. Bloody hell! Locked out of his own digs! He made a face of annoyance and then wandered down the hall toward Nikita's apartment, where he spotted that the door had been left open. _Fine_! he thought. _She hasn't got anything decent to eat -- I'm going to starve to death waiting for those two to make up_!

As he entered the apartment, however, he was met by a very pleasant surprise.

"Well, hello there, you delectable honey-dipped delight!" he said with his most endearing smile.

Aurora turned at the sound of a new voice and stared at the person from whom the new voice had uttered. Just stared at him. Really stared. As if she couldn't believe what she was seeing in front of her. Mick stood just that little bit taller -- which was pretty hard cause like most men in LFN other than Michael and Operations, he was quite short. But he knew why the vision of lovely womanhood that stood before him was staring at him in speechless wonder. Even he knew just how good he looked in his lime green silk shirt with the matching red trim and his silver spandex skin-tight pants. But the piece de resistance was his big-ass pimp hat that he had on his head that measured at least 18" all round. No wonder she was smitten!

His ego was deflated slightly at the words that came out of the woman's mouth, though. "Who the hell are you? I work for myself -- I don't need a new pimp! And if that bloody Frenchy thinks that he can run out without paying, he's got another think coming." And with that comment, she stood there affecting an air of unconcern, with her arms crossed and her mouth pouting.

Mick stood looking at her loveliness for a few more minutes before he said anything more. Well, her nipples _were_ standing out quite prominently from her wet t-shirt after all, and he was a perve. But then he moved and reached down into his pants pockets, getting strange looks from Aurora cause his pants were so tight that it looked like he was playing with himself. But after a few minutes of fumbling -- which took just a little longer than normal cause he _was_ copping a bit of a feel -- he pulled out something that made her eyes go really wide and her mouth drop open in shocked awe.

"Ohhhhh...is that what I think it is?" she breathed in shocked awe.

"Yes, my delectable little chocolate coated sugar candy cane all day sucker, it is." And with that, Mick raised his Section One/Oversight platinum gold credit card with unlimited credit over his head, capturing the light and making the card shimmer. "Let's talk business!"

***

When Michael had dragged Nikita into Mick's apartment and slammed the door in Mick's face, he had only had one thought in mind -- to talk to his beloved love, the one he adored, and make things right again. How could he go on with life if she never forgave him? How could he live without her? He wanted to know. How could he ever live without her? If she ever goed. All he could see in his vision was Nikita; her golden beauty inspired him. She was love, she was life, and she was lust. And god he was horny! If he didn't get some action soon he was going to explode.

Looking down upon his vision of beauty, he gently cupped her face in his hands as he started his apology. "Ni-kee-taaa. We do what we have to do. But no more will I hide behind the lies of Section. No more will I deny my heart. No more will I let you go on believing that you do not matter to me. You are my life. You are my world; you are every breath I take. You are the light of my soul, the place I call home. You are beauty personified and I cannot go on one more day without you by my side. We will defeat all obstacles that life will throw before us. Together. As one. Oh my love, my dearest one, forgive me. Forgive that I ever caused you one moment of pain, of grief or sorrow. I would rather cut out my heart than let you go on without my love!"

And with that declaration of undying heartfelt devotion and love, Michael lowered his head to kiss her lips. Her luscious, pouting, full lips. Nikita froze at the tenderness he was showing her as his tongue slowly licked around her lips to tease and tantalise. And then his lips touched her own. Need exploded into her as she deepened the kiss by pulling him closer and thrusting her tongue down his mouth where-upon she indulged herself in a game of tonsil hockey. It was awesome! It was right. It was love. And she was winning 3 points to 2! But she knew that she had to break the kiss before it got too hot and heavy, because she had to talk to him.

Pulling back reluctantly from Michael's embrace, Nikita stared into his gorgeous green eyes. She stared so hard at him that she could see herself reflected back from them, and was momentarily distracted by how good she looked! But then she shook herself from her preening, as she knew that he needed a response. She could no longer deny her own feelings as far as Michael was concerned. She loved him, loved him to distraction. Loved him so much that she sometimes daydreamed in the middle of a briefing. And that wasn't good, because Operations seemed to know when she lost focus and asked her a question. Luckily for her, she was such an exceptional operative that she only ever needed to listen with half an ear, and always knew the correct answers. But she was digressing. She needed to say that she forgave her love, if only so that they could go on.

"Michael," she said. "I know that you love me, I have just been waiting these countless years for you to admit it to me. I love you too. You are my love, my life. Why do you think I keep coming back to Section each time you free me? It's because without you I have no life, and I don't want to live without you. I would rather have a day with you than an eternity alone. Je t'aime my love, je t'aime!"

But before they had a chance to once more embrace and seal their love, Michael's eyes drifted slightly to the left and as they did, he went a sickly green colour and started to sway on his feet. "Michael!" Nikita cried, alarmed. "What's wrong, what's the matter?"

"Mon Dieu!" Michael moaned. "Nikita, I cannot stay in this room one moment longer. The room...it is making me ill!" And as Michael stood there breaking out in a sweat, Nikita finally looked around the room. Had a real good look. And then gasped in horror. In all the times that she had known Mick, she had never actually set foot in his apartment, and what she saw in the living room made her awfully glad that she hadn't.

The whole room was painted a pale lilac with checked wallpaper trim around the tops of the walls. Instead of a sofa, Mick had installed a love seat that was a hideous fluoro orange with dark red feather trim. Several lava lamps were situated around the room, all of them glug-glugging, and the shapes they were forming were somehow pornographic. The carpet was deep purple shag pile and it seemed there was a feature wall that was covered in chartreuse velvet. The feature wall also had lots of plastic animals tacked on it, all in various positions of the Kama Sutra. Long sweeping curtains covered the windows and they alternated from yellow in one window to green in another and then back again. Everywhere she looked was a mismatch of colour and style, all combining into one hideous temple of kitsch. There was even a swing suspended from the ceiling, surrounded by artificial roses and with a white velour padded seat. Looking around, Nikita started to feel quite ill herself. Grabbing hold of Michael's hand, she tugged him out of the room.

"Come on Michael, we need to get out of here before I hurl!"

***

Mick looked up in dismay as Michael and Nikita came running back into Nikita's apartment. He had only just finished his negotiations with Aurora and it seemed that they were just about to get down to the hanky-panky when he was rudely interrupted. But his dismay turned to concern as he took in their appearance. "Why my sugar whipped, candy battered love duo, whatever is the matter?"

Now that they had escaped the atrocious eyesore of decor that was Mick's apartment, Michael was feeling so much better, and he looked at Mick really angrily and said, "You. Out. Now."

"All right, all right, don't get your knickers in a twist guvenor, I'm going. Come, my little love sweet with glazed cinnamon icing, let us retire to the Love Nest of the God Mick!" And he delicately took Aurora's hand and guided her out of Nikita's place and back to his.

"Okay Mick, whatever you say. But tick tock baby -- this is gonna cost ya!" stated Aurora as she followed Mick out. And they left and slammed the door behind them.

As soon as the door had closed behind them, Michael once again grabbed Nikita in his arms. "Now my love, my darling. Now let us seal our love in the physical, as we have sealed our love in the metaphysical. Let our bodies combine as one as our two hearts have combined as one." And as they both stood there gazing into each other's eyes, the slight strains of a song could be heard softly emanating from Michael's famous nose again. A song that seemed to be poignantly accurate for this moment of love revealed and acted upon. As song that could very well become the ultimate love theme for our beloved duo forever more. A song that captured the heart and soul of their whole romance. A song of love.

_'And sometimes when we touch  
The honesty's too much  
And I have to close my eyes and hide  
I wanna hold you till I die  
Till we both break down and cry  
I wanna hold you till the fear in me subsides'_

And while this poignant song of love had been playing, Michael had once again grabbed Nikita's hand and they were back to doing that hand-dance thingy again. Michael was in ecstasy, as was Nikita. This hand-dance thingy was the best foreplay ever! And slowly, ever so slowly, they both hand-danced their way into Nikita's bedroom. The one with the really big bed that was close to the floor. Thank god she had remembered to change the sheets that morning!

As they finally entered her bedroom, the hand-dance thingy was almost at the crescendo and they were close to hand-dance peaking. It was too soon for such bliss, but the passion that they inspired in each other could no longer be denied. As their hands started to jerk and tremble, Michael lowered his head to capture Nikita's cries of joy, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, cause his hand jerks were causing him to cry out in joy too. And as their hands finally stilled, they lowered themselves down onto Nikita's bed. Well, they fell actually, cause did I mention that Nikita's bed was close to the floor?


	5. Chapter 5

Madeline glanced at her watch, noticing that she and Operations had been staring menacingly out the Perch windows for a full twenty minutes.

"That's probably sufficient to boost operating efficiency for the next several hours," she remarked, turning to leave and return to her office.

"Wait," called Operations. "I want to check Nikita's status again before you leave. If the reverse subliminal programming succeeds with her, I want to expand it to the rest of the Section."

"Well," she said, looking sceptical, "it's still an experimental procedure, and the effects aren't permanent yet. Any exposure to countervailing agents could produce anomalous results."

She walked to a computer terminal along the wall and began typing commands to bring up the surveillance in Nikita's apartment.

"Countervailing agents?" asked Operations. "Such as?"

"Such as...." she started, and then her eyes widened when she saw the scene in Nikita's apartment, where Michael and Nikita were in the midst of the heated throes of passionate ecstasy. "Such as _that_!"

Looking over her shoulder, Operations clenched his fists angrily and turned red with rage.

"Look at this!" he yelled. "I thought this procedure was supposed to keep them apart! This is worse than if we had done nothing!"

Madeline shrugged. "I warned you that using the process might provoke Michael into desperate action. Now we've lost control over both of them."

They both winced as the volume of noise from the surveillance began to reach a crescendo. "Oh, Michael!" screamed Nikita through the computer speakers. "Yes, Yes, YES!!!!"

"For God's sake, turn the volume down!" Operations cried out, covering his ears in pain. "That screeching is enough to wake the dead!"

"Too late. It already has," came a familiar voice from behind them. "Or at least the cryogenically frozen."

"Adrian!" they gasped in unison, whirling around in horror to face their nemesis.

Adrian lurched stiffly into the Perch, her arms stuck out in front of her like a mummy, as she slammed deliberately into the walls in an attempt to chip the ice off herself.

"I'm sure you must regret the decision to keep me alive," she said with an air of aristocratic superiority, marred only by the icicle hanging from her nose.

"I'll take care of that mistake right now," Madeline spat, as she lunged toward the other woman.

The two women struggled for several moments, trying desperately to pull each other's hair. But Adrian couldn't bend her arms to get a grip, and her hair was too slick with ice for Madeline to take a firm hold. Just as they were about to give up on the hair pulling and commence clawing each other with their fingernails, where Adrian, not having had a manicure in quite a long time, had a considerable advantage, they both stopped in their tracks, incredulous, as a previously unimaginable level of unearthly shrieking began emanating from the computer speakers.

"Miiiiiiiiiiikuuuuuuuuuuulllllllllllllll!" Nikita screamed in ecstasy.

"Good Lord," said Adrian in astonishment, "it sounds like they're killing a cat!"

"No, I think it's a monkey," said Madeline.

"No, it's Nikita," said Operations.

"Michael's killing Nikita?" Madeline asked hopefully.

"No, no, no, it's Nikita shrieking as if she were a cat being killed."

"A monkey, you mean," corrected Madeline.

"Monkey, cat, it doesn't matter!" snapped Adrian. "The real question is, what _are_ they doing?"

They all tilted their heads sideways to try to get a better view.

"I have no idea...." started Operations, but then he suddenly straightened up as a brilliant idea seized him. "Madeline!"

"What?" she said, tilting her head to the other side, mesmerised by the scene that was unfolding on the computer monitor.

"Quickly! Switch this video feed to the web-cam channel!"

With a shake of her head, Madeline snapped herself out of the hypnotic state the view of the surveillance had put her in, and quickly typed the necessary commands to switch the video feed so that it was being broadcast over the live web-cam site. Suddenly, the orders skyrocketed, money pouring into their secret offshore bank accounts in hurricane-like torrents.

"My God," exclaimed Operations appreciatively. "This is incredible!" He then frowned and scratched his head. "Why have we been trying to keep them apart all this time?"

"We'll have to make a note never to do that again," Madeline agreed. "Why, together, as a team, they're our most formidable resource!"

Adrian looked over their shoulders, spotted the readout of payments rolling into the web-cam accounts, and gasped.

"_This_ is what you've turned my beloved Section One into?" she hissed. "A purveyor of online porn?"

Operations waved his hand dismissively. "No, no, don't worry -- Section One still does missions against the terrorists. Madeline and I have just, uh, 'borrowed' the computers for our own little venture."

"Your _own_ venture? You mean you're taking this money for yourselves?" Adrian was aghast. She snatched Operations' cell phone out of his jacket pocket before he could react. "That's it -- I'm going to call George and have this entire sordid operation shut down."

"Wait! You don't want to do that."

"Why?"

"Because...because...because we'll split the profits with you 50/50!"

"What?!" Madeline whirled to look at him in fury.

Adrian hesitated, staring at the readout of exponentially exploding credit card orders. "Well...as long as it doesn't interfere with missions, maybe it's not so terrible...." she murmured. Then she brightened. "You know, 'porn' is such a crude term, isn't it? All the really enlightened people call it cyber-erotica."

Operations smiled. "I know I do."

"But Paul!" Madeline said through gritted teeth, clutching his arm so hard that he winced. "What about the Philippines?"

"The Philippines are nothing! Look at those orders piling in! At this rate, even with only half the profits, we'll be able to afford Australia! And we'll still have money left over for you to corner the world market on orchids."

This seemed to placate her, and she released her grip. "Really? And I won't have to share any of them with her?" She jerked her head over toward Adrian.

"Oh, please, you can have the orchids - they're so nouveau-riche," scoffed Adrian. "_I'm_ going to corner the market on roses."

"_Roses_?" Madeline laughed. "How very _traditional_. Like sensible shoes and bulky cardigans and--"

"Enough, ladies!" Operations interrupted. He turned to Adrian. "Do we have a deal or not?"

"Well, Paul," said Adrian, extending her hand, "I think we can do business. I see I taught you well."

But just as they were about to shake hands and seal their agreement, the electricity cut out and all of Section's systems froze -- including the computers taking the credit card payments. As they looked around in panicked bewilderment, Operations' cell phone began to ring ominously. Adrian hastily offered it back to him, and he took hold of it gingerly, as if it were a poisonous snake.

"Hello?" he answered nervously. "Mr. Jones? Um, why are you calling?"

Adrian and Madeline exchanged concerned looks. Mr. Jones? This couldn't be good.

"Our computer resources seem unusually bogged down?" Operations asked. "And you're coming here to investigate yourself? That hardly seems necessary." He paused. "I see." He then hung up, his face pasty white with trepidation.

Before he could even open his mouth to explain to the other two what was going on, a bald man in a lime green silk shirt with matching red trim and silver spandex skin-tight pants strode cheerfully into the Perch, a scantily-clad woman on his arm.

"Mick Schtoppel?" cried Operations and Madeline in disbelief.

"To the vast multitudes." He smiled. "But you two, from now on, can just call me Boss. Oh, and this is my assistant, Aurora. You can call her, well, Aurora."

"But why are you revealing your identity?" Operations asked suspiciously. "Why, the only person we know who you know who knows you that we know of is George, and George...." he gulped nervously.

"Is safe and sound in Oversight," finished Madeline, with a confused frown.

"That's right! We haven't killed him yet!" said Operations. "So why are you here?"

"Well," said Mick, or Jones, that is, "I've been observing the goings-on here at Section One for quite some time now. And I must say, things have gotten completely out of control. I'm going to initiate a thorough review. Of _all_ personnel," he added threateningly.

Operations and Madeline looked at each other in apprehension. _They_ were going to be reviewed? But they hadn't had time to trash all of the incriminating files!

Madeline reached up to her hair, checking to make sure that she had remembered to hide the cyanide capsule that she always wore there in case of just such a situation. Her fingers touched something, and for a moment she relaxed, but then she noticed it was the wrong shape. It was...too large somehow. With two crunchy outside layers, and a cream-filled centre.... Damn! She'd accidentally snatched up one of Birkoff's Oreo cookies that morning.

"Oh, this is ridiculous!" said Adrian with disgust. "_You_ can't do a review of anyone!"

Mick stared at her, wondering who this strange woman was who was standing in a pool of melted ice. He didn't remember any such person being in the script that Centre had given him. And he'd memorized the scene thoroughly. Stroll in pompously -- check. Mock Madeline and Operations -- check. Introduce Nikita as his secret spy -- oops, forgot that part! Well, he had Aurora here as a substitute. But confront strange, half-frozen elderly lady? No, he would have remembered that. He harrumphed to himself in irritation. He required _scripts_ dammit! He wasn't one of those ridiculous _improv_ people. They were an embarrassment to the craft, really.

Adrian turned to Operations. "This isn't Mr. Jones! I _know_ Mr. Jones."

Mick started to laugh nervously. "Of course I'm Mr. Jones! Don't listen to that senile old lady!"

"No, he's not," insisted Adrian. "And in fact, I know who he really is. He's an actor named Martin Henderson. An actor with a career he'd rather forget about, isn't that right?" She turned to him with a knowing leer.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he stammered.

"In your younger, poverty-stricken days," Adrian said tauntingly, "you worked under the stage name Long John Silver, starring in a little production entitled 'Treasure Island: XXX Marks the Spot.'" She smiled. "As I recall, you were famous for your really, really, really, really long...."

Operations' and Madeline's eyes widened.

"Pegleg," Adrian finished with a smirk.

"No!" he gasped, hiding his face in his hands in mortified humiliation. "How could you know this? I've kept it a secret for so many years!"

"Indeed, Adrian" said Madeline, raising an eyebrow, "how _could_ you know this?"

Adrian blushed slightly. "George is a cinema aficionado."

"Well, if you're not Mr. Jones," said Operations, "give us back our electricity, dammit! We're losing valuable credit card orders!"

"All right, all right," said Mick/Jones/Martin/Long John Silver, removing a remote control device from his pocket and pushing a button to switch the electricity back on. "There. Are you happy?"

But before anyone could answer, the electricity switched off yet again. Or, rather, it flickered. Spookily. As eerie synthesized organ music played from nowhere in particular.

Suddenly, in the doorway, Jerome appeared, dressed in his best The Omen-imitation outfit, as several spotlights of strange, coloured light flashed and strobed, and fog from dry ice swirled mysteriously about him.

"No!" shrieked Operations and Madeline, clutching at each other in terror. "Don't hurl us across the room, or give us inexplicable nosebleeds, or vaporise us on the spot!" they begged.

Adrian looked at them as if they had lost their minds. "Good heavens! Whatever is the matter with you two? It's just a lovely little boy!" With that, she began walking toward him. Jerome moved his glare from Operations and Madeline as he observed the strange old lady walking towards him. He didn't like her smile, which did look quite odd as Adrian was still partly frozen, so he turned his death-ray glare eyes upon her. But by some strange quirk of fate, all that appeared to happen was that all the ice still left on her body miraculously melted, and she was once again immaculately coiffed and dressed. And clutching a dainty cup of Earl Grey tea.

Surprised by this turn of events, he turned his death-ray glare back upon Madeline and Operations, cause he liked to scare them. And it worked. Madeline gave a little shriek and hid behind Operations when she realised that Jerome was looking at them again. A nosebleed was most unattractive after all, and clashed with the day's ensemble. Noticing that they were both quivering slightly in fear, Jerome decided that messin' wit their minds was an opportunity that he just couldn't pass up. He turned his most lethal, ominous, spookily scary glare upon them, the one that caused his eyes to flash red, then yellow, then green, and spoke to them both in a deep voice that was once again electronically modified and sounded a bit like Cher in that song she sang after Sonny died.

"Don't annoy me you two. Remember, I know what you are most afraid of. But perhaps now is the moment to just reveal the truth to you both. Yes, Operations, it is true. Your greatest fear will be realised if you dye your hair snow-white again. It _will_ all fall out, but not before causing all of Section to go blind. And, you, Madeline, just don't make me mad or I will throw _all_ the men in Section across the room, causing you to scream their names and run across to them in ridiculously high uncomfortable CFM pumps and then try and undo their ties. And you _know_ how hard that is for you!" He smiled evilly as he noticed that both Madeline and Operations blanched even whiter at his diabolical threats. He then continued, "Now run down and get me some milk and cookies. I feel like sitting down and talking to this nice old lady. She reminds me of Red Riding Hood's grandmother, and I'm hungry!"

As they both ran to do his evil bidding, the sounds of maniacal laughter could be heard echoing throughout Section. And it seemed to be following them, which it probably was, cause the evil scary little Jerome had some really strange funky powers!

***

Meanwhile, down in Munitions, Walter was unaware of the strange developments that had occurred in the Perch, and was extremely worried about, oh, a lot of stuff. What if Birkoff found the computer file that was hidden deep in Section's archives under the secret name 'Missing twins -- the introduction of'? Had Michael and Nikita been able to understand the encrypted messages that he had set up on their panels? I mean, it was a brilliant hidden language, after all. Nobody would think of deciphering Pidgin English. It was just so tough! But he was afraid that the text was maybe just a bit too complex. With all the stuff going on around Section at the moment, he had forgotten to give our heroic duo the code breaker. And what would happen if Madeline and Operations found out that he had been helping Michael and Nikita keep secret rendezvous'? It was bad enough that he and Birkoff had escaped punishment for disabling Section's leaders for a few hours. He just knew that they would be getting it when they least expected it!

But the thing that was worrying Walter the most was one thing that kept going around and around in his mind. Something that was just troubling him so much that he didn't seem to be able to concentrate on his job. And that was a problem, cause if _anybody_ in Section loved his job, it was Walter! It was a question that, alas, was destined to remain unanswered, despite repeated requests. But despite knowing this, Walter was unable to stop himself from wondering. Just why _do_ all the sets and props and ideas from LFN keep ending up on all these new shows? And why _did_ TPTB decide to screw over all the HR's and TR's? Walter shook his head in perplexion, cause it was never going to get solved!

Suddenly, all the lights in Munitions dimmed down to a romantic flicker and soft soppy, mushy love music started to play softly from somewhere up above, and Walter was shaken out of his reverie as a soft voice suddenly uttered, "Hello, Walter."

"B-B-Belinda?" he stammered. Then his expression hardened. "No, you're just another one of those damned holograms, aren't you?"

"No, I'm very real -- and I've come back for you." She walked toward him and grasped his hands lovingly.

"But you went out on an abeyance mission! How--"

Belinda laughed. "Oh, Walter! Don't you know what abeyance is?"

"Sure," he said, nodding angrily. "That's what they do to people who are too decent to become Section's killing machines."

"No, no," she said, smiling. "That's just what they _want_ you to think, so the other operatives won't get jealous. Actually, those of us sent off on abeyance missions get smuggled away to Section's secret resort in Tahiti for some desperately needed fun in the sun."

"What?!" Walter asked, unable to believe what he had just heard. "No way can this be true! Why do the operatives who screw up -- not that _you_ screwed up, sweetheart, you were just too good for this place - get sent to a resort, when the hard-working ones get stuck here? Like me????"

"Well," she said with a shrug, "I guess they figure that the operatives who keep their performance levels up are just fine, but the ones who are slipping need a little vacation. But anyway, I'm all rested up -- and back to be with you!" She threw her arms around him and gave him a big, wet kiss on the cheek.

"You mean, if I had started making mistakes on the job, or slacking off, I would have been sent to Tahiti to sip Mai Tais?!" he gasped.

"Yeah, kind of ironic, isn't it?" Belinda winked. "Next time, we'll have to screw up something at the same time so we can go together! You wouldn't _believe_ the beaches! Sand as white as snow!"

***

"So why are you dragging me to Section One again?" Quinn demanded, as George pulled her by the arm down the halls of Oversight toward the exit, Greg running to keep up behind.

"First of all, you're my daughter," George answered.

"Yes, I got that part the first time you explained it. And geek boy here is my cousin, God help me."

Greg gave her a nasty look.

"So, in order to make sure that _you_ take over Section One instead of Nikita," George continued, "we have to fool Jones into thinking that you're Nikita. First, we'll transfer you to Section One. Then, we'll secretly arrange to give both of you plastic surgery so that you can switch places. It's quite simple, really."

"But what if I don't _want_ to be an Amazonian-looking blonde?" Quinn pouted. "I get hit on by computer nerds enough as it is!"

"It's a small sacrifice to take over the organization, don't you think?"

"I'll really get to be the boss? And I won't have to sleep my way to the top, the way I was planning?"

"If you impersonate Nikita, it will all be handed to you on a silver platter, my dear," answered George.

"Well..." she said, pondering the situation, "I really would have _preferred_ sleeping my way to the top. But I guess this will do."

"Uncle George?" Greg asked, panting as he ran to keep up. "There's something I don't understand."

"What is it?" George snapped.

"I understand why Quinn would agree to switch places with Nikita, but why would Nikita agree to have plastic surgery to become Quinn? I mean, what does she get out of it? She loses her shot at taking over, she goes from being a hot blonde to a boring--"

Greg suddenly shut up as Quinn shot him a withering look.

"That's actually a very perceptive question, Gregory," George answered, nodding in approval. "In return for her cooperation, I'm going to give her her freedom. With Michael."

"You're going to let Nikita and Michael loose? I don't think Operations and Madeline will be very happy about losing their top operative."

"Well, they won't have a choice in the matter. I'll tell them it's a pilot program to test whether operatives can adjust to being returned to the real world."

"And won't they be suspicious when 'Nikita' doesn't seem to mind being separated from Michael? And when Michael goes off happily with Quinn?"

"Oh, they'll just assume one of their endless series of diabolically evil subliminal programming experiments finally worked. They'll be thrilled."

***

"All right," said Davenport, frowning at the computer screen. "According to the tracking device, Michael and Nikita are... at Nikita's apartment!" he exclaimed. "I never would have thought of looking there! Thank God for technology!"

"Ooh, zees eez perfect!" cried Andrea, jumping up and down and squealing in excitement.

"Now," announced Davenport confidently, "we can sneak into the apartment, place your formula in Michael's coffee, and I will become the best and bravest and most esteemed operative in all of Section One! And you'll have your revenge! Buahahahaha!!!!!"

Grinning evilly, as he was getting really good at evil grins, he started to stride out of the restaurant.

"Wait!" said Andrea, grabbing him by the arm to stop him. "Zere eez plenty of time for zat!" She ran her hand up and down his leg, delighting in the feel of the nylon beneath her fingers. "First," she said, licking her lips seductively, "I want Waitress Davenport to take my order. I promise I weel leave you a beeg teep!"

***

Jerome frowned sharply as Madeline and Operations deposited a third tray of milk and cookies in front of him.

"I'm sick of milk and cookies. I want candy. And I _told_ you I wanted a joystick installed at this computer so I can play video games!"

"You're psychic," Operations muttered. "Why don't you use your powers to play the video games?"

"I _heard_ that!" Jerome said threateningly. "You _do_ want to keep your hair, don't you?"

Madeline sighed. "Why is it," she asked dejectedly, "that you only pick on us? You don't have _them_ running around catering to your every whim," she said, nodding at Adrian, Mick, and Aurora, who were cheerfully munching on the milk and cookies.

"Well, that's because _they're_ not my parents. But since _you_ are, it's your _job_ to cater to my every whim," he answered smugly.

Madeline scowled in disgust. "We're not your parents! In fact, you don't have parents, nor did you have a real childhood," she taunted him. "That's why you'll never be normal, never be--"

Operations jabbed her in the side with his elbow. "Um, Madeline, darling, I think we need to talk. Why don't we step out into the hallway here?" He seized her by the arm and pulled her hurriedly out of the Perch.

"I've had quite enough of that brat," Madeline hissed. "Enough is enough. Let him conjure up his own milk and cookies. I have work to do!"

"But Madeline," Operations said sheepishly, hanging his head a bit, "he's right. We _are_ his parents."

"That's ridiculous!" she scoffed. "I think I'd remember being pregnant. I would have had to buy a completely new wardrobe. And maternity clothes are _so_ unflattering."

"Um, remember how you had that really strange annual physical about eleven years ago? Where they 'accidentally' injected you with a sedative and you woke up a couple of hours later with a mysterious abdominal scar?"

"Yes," she answered suspiciously.

" Well, I ordered the doctors to have one of your eggs removed so that we could create a test tube baby. And that baby was Jerome."

"You what?" she gasped in horror. "How could you?"

He grasped her by the shoulders and looked at her intently, his cold blue eyes flashing, well, coldly. And really intently, in that skin-crawlingly villainous kind of way that only he could manage -- with the right kind of lighting, of course. "We're the perfect leadership team, right?" he asked.

She nodded. Of course. No one could compare to their perfection, their complete synchronicity! Especially not those ungrateful upstarts Michael and Nikita. No one ever called _them_ Siamese twins, after all!

"Well," Operations continued, "it occurred to me that our offspring would combine our best characteristics and thus become the perfect operative! The true future of Section - us, fused into a single brain!" He grinned maniacally.

She looked back toward the Perch fearfully. "But -- but -- he's demonic!"

Operations shrugged. "What do you expect? He _is_ our son, after all."

"And he hates us!"

"Oh, that. I think that's just a phase. Of course, it'll get worse for a while when he becomes a teenager. And then he'll bankrupt us when he goes to college. But after that, I swear, things will be perfect! He'll rule the world, and we can look on with pride!"

"He'll rule the world?" she asked.

"Of course!"

She paused thoughtfully. "Will he do it efficiently?"

Operations laughed. "With your genes? Somehow I think that will be his top priority."

A sudden look of determination filled Madeline's face, and she walked off purposefully.

"Where are you going?" Operations called out, running to catch up with her.

"I'm going to get him candy, a joystick, and a terrorist captive to torture to death. I think he mentioned something about wanting to see someone die." She beamed happily. "I should have known he was mine!"


	6. Chapter 6

**We interrupt this story to give you a short recap that is needed here, able readers, as our valiant heroes plunge headlong towards the story finale. No, TPTB never bothered to explain anything, but cause we're so much nicer than that, we've decided to remind you just what the heck is going on. Cause, well, we really have created a mess of things, haven't we?

First, we have Michael and Nikita still basking in the afterglow of very loud and raucous lovemaking, where we have discovered that after pledging eternal love and devotion, Nikita squeals like either a dying cat or a monkey. No one is actually quite sure which. Although it really doesn't matter, since as we all know, there isn't a right or wrong answer. Michael, our valiant hero who has finally declared his undying love to our pure and just heroine Nikita, has a previous unknown talent of being able to play a whole symphony through his nose, which whistles. They're the good guys.

We also have Davenport and the recently-presumed-dead-but-really-alive-cause-TPTB-said-so Andrea trying to either prove that they are the bestest, most able, most excellent and smartest operative, or have revenge because they were wronged in bed. It seems that during the course of their poisonous mission that the chloral hydrate was spilled -- although who was responsible is a matter of heated debate - and a substitute was hastily concocted from ingredients found in a Witchblade utility belt. But despite their differences, a strange attraction is forming between these two graduates of the last evil-looks-and-smiles-from-Section-operatives course that was run by Madeline and Operations, in part because they've discovered that being evil can be way more fun than being good, but also in part because Davenport looks really, really hot in a pink waitress uniform and platinum blonde wig with Cherry Red lipstick. Yum! They're slightly evil guys.

It has been discovered that Quinn is the daughter of George and Adrian, and that Greg Hillinger is George's previously unknown nephew. Greg has been spying on Section One, and not very well at that, and reporting the information back to George, who doesn't know that Madeline and Operations knows that he knows that they know that he is spying on them with hidden cameras. George has come up with a plan to have Quinn surgically altered to look like Nikita so that she can take over Section. And all three are now on their way to Section One. Quinn's not happy with this plan cause she wants to sleep her way to the top, the way all ambitious girls have done since time immemorial. Greg, meanwhile, is just an idiot. They are bad guys.

We have Walter, who has now been reunited with his one true love who also happens to be his wife Belinda, who was supposed to be in Abeyance and killed, but it turns out that Abeyance is really a holiday home in Tahiti, so she's back. With a really nice tan, too. Walter has also been helping our beloved heroes to fool those nasty Operations and Madeline, and keep their love affair secret -- well, not that it's really secret now, what with their passion-filled tryst being broadcast to the world over the internet. But anyway, Walter and Birkoff had arranged to temporarily dispose of said nasties so that the heroes could get some lovin'. However, this plan had backfired when it seemed that the ones left in charge were Henry and Elizabeth, aka the Torture Twins. Now, Walter just waits for Madeline and Operations to get their revenge, and lives in fear as to what that punishment may be, and ponders the many mysteries that TPTB have left for us. He's an old good guy.

Jerome, the psychic spawn-from-hell, has returned, along with Adrian, who has awakened and melted from her deep freeze like a Popsicle left out in the sun, and both are enjoying a nice snack of cold milk and cookies, along with Mick Schtoppel and his call-girl side kick Aurora. Mick, it seems, has been impersonating Mr Jones, the bigwig of Centre. This is in turn an acting role, as it appears that the real Mr Jones is the actual father of Nikita. And Nikita is in turn spying on Section One, and simultaneously spying on the mission to spy on Section One, a mission that she was sent on by Mick himself. So far in this story, his boss has not been revealed, but we can probably assume that it is indeed Mr Jones. But then again, can we ever assume anything about LFN? All these are nasty bad guys, or English gits, or call-girl sidekicks whose credit card fees are racking up really, really high by now.

Birkoff, it seems, has been stuck in front of his computer and is not getting any action at all -- poor dear. He's a young good guy.

Which leaves us lastly and by no means leastly to the so-called resident bad guys of Section One, Madeline and Operations. And boy, are these two having fun! It seems that they have set up a live web-cam site to capitalise on their unquenchable desire for each other and have made a pretty penny indeed. Operations has bought the islands of the Philippines for his lover, and she in turn has agreed to spare a small amount of time from her plants to pay attention to him. But is her cold hard exterior really a front to hide the passionate woman within? How long can she keep resisting the siren call of passion when there's lots of money to be made? But we digress. It has also been revealed that Jerome is the biological child of Operations and Madeline after one of her eggs was harvested in secret, and unbeknownst to her. This dark dastardly duo is also determined to drive a wedge between our glorious heroes for no other reason than that they can! Oh, the humanity! Yeah, these two are the big nasties in this one.

Phew! Now that the stage is set and you've got the cast of characters straight again, on with the story....

***

Birkoff sat in Comm. in front of his computer munching on his Oreo and mint pattie chocolate sandwich when he heard the tramp, tramp, and tramp of approaching feet. Startled, he looked up and his mouth hung open in disbelief as he saw that George was approaching, along with his arch nemesis Greg Hillinger and the new girl Quinn. Or wait -- how could he know who Quinn was? Well, we know it's Quinn, anyway. They were completely unexpected and no warning by Oversight had been given. What could they want? And why were they together? And wasn't Hillinger cancelled? He really must complain to his agent that he wasn't getting the scripts early enough to keep up with all the changes that TPTB did! He also made a mental note to check and see if Walter got his scripts any earlier, cause he was pretty sure that Walter was sleeping with the second script assistant Sally.

But all those thoughts slipped rapidly from his mind as his archenemy leaned over his console and said mockingly, "Hello, Seymour", as he casually helped himself to one of Birkoff's precious Oreo cookies.

"Hello, Greg," Birkoff hissed. "What are you doing here?"

"We've come to introduce you to your replacement," answered George.

Replacement? Why was he being replaced? Oh, God, was he being punished for pulling that stunt with Walter where he helped incapacitate Madeline and Operations? He just _knew_ he shouldn't have listened to Walter. And now, his archenemy Greg was going to take his place! What a disaster!

"I've already prepared my replacement," he said, gulping nervously. "It's an AI program that knows everything I do, just in case," he gulped again, "something happens to me. You don't need to bring in Greg. Really, you don't."

"Oh, Greg isn't your replacement," said George. "Quinn here is."

Birkoff turned to look at Quinn, who in turn looked down at him disdainfully.

"I remember you!" she said with disgust. "You followed me all around that Linux conference last month, shaking your hips and talking about how you were the love machine! Except I see you've dropped that idiotic accent. It wasn't fooling anyone, you know!"

"What Linux conference? What accent?"

"Oh, please!" she scoffed. "Don't play dumb, Birkoff. Or should I say _Jason_," she sneered. "That _is_ the fake name you use when you're trying to pick up women, isn't it?"

Birkoff gulped once again. Oh, no! He'd been caught red-handed! He'd been sneaking out of Section for the past several months, living a double-life as his alter ego Jason -- an identity he'd created just for fun, to see if a 'new' personality would make it with the ladies. And had it ever! He'd scored, and scored again! Except for Quinn, who had somehow resisted his charms when he followed her around the conference. He couldn't understand why she didn't succumb like all the others, and her resistance drove him wild! He had to have her! Turning red with lust, he picked up an Oreo and crunched down on it to try to disguise his feelings.

Quinn, in turn, examined Birkoff as her heart began to go aflutter. She had done her best hard-to-get act at the conference -- hadn't he seen that she wanted him to be a bad boy and just take her? What more did she have to do?

"Well, we'll leave you two to get acquainted," said George, grabbing Greg by the arm and walking away.

***

George tromped down the hallways of Section One so quickly, so determinedly, that Greg could no longer keep up. Exhausted, he fell behind, wandering aimlessly. What good did it do, really, to be George's nephew after all? Quinn was going to get to take over -- but Greg, what was in it for him? Huh? Huh? Nothing, as far as he could tell. And if it hadn't have been for him, George wouldn't even know Quinn's identity! But was he grateful to his hard-working and brilliant nephew? No! Well, forget George. Greg could find someone else to suck up to. Especially since George had given Greg his password and Greg could now get access to _anything_! This time, though, he'd make sure that he didn't get fooled by any fake files. No one fooled Greg Hillinger!

His pace quickened a bit as he decided to find a computer somewhere and hack in with George's handy password. But then, turning around a corner, he was nearly bowled over by a fast-moving blonde Amazon.

"Hey!" he snapped. "Watch where you're going!"

"Stuff it, twerp!" the Amazon snapped back.

As Greg looked at the woman, he suddenly gaped in astonishment. "Nikita?" he said, recognizing her. "You're not supposed to be rude! Why, you're like the only person in Section One who's actually nice to me, although God only knows why since I've proven again and again how craven and despicable I am."

"I'm not Nikita," said the woman impatiently. "Now, get outta my way."

"Wait a minute!" cried Greg. "Of course you're Nikita. I'd know her anywhere!"

The woman sighed in exasperation. "No. I just look exactly like Nikita, thanks to painstaking -- and painful -- plastic surgery. My name is Abby."

"Abby? You mean the terrorist Abby who impersonated Nikita?"

"No, the terrorist Abby who impersonated Elvis," she answered snidely. "Of course I'm the terrorist Abby who impersonated Nikita! What other Abby is there who looks exactly like Nikita, you moron?"

"But Nikita cancelled you!" said Greg. "Or Madeline cancelled you. Or somebody cancelled you, anyway."

"No, Nikita couldn't do it, and Madeline thought better of it," she answered.

"Why? You're a terrorist? Aren't we supposed to cancel you guys?"

"Cancel a woman with my looks who can kill in cold blood?" she said with a laugh. "Don't be silly. They recruited me!"

Greg frowned a bit, as he remembered something he had read about Abby when he was hacking through Nikita's file to try to download naked pictures of her.

"Wait a sec, aren't you the Abby who slept with Seymour?"

She sighed again. "Yes. What about it?"

He fell to his knees in a grovelling position and grabbed her around the ankles.

"Oh please oh please oh please have sex with me!" he begged. "I'm so much better than Seymour at everything! Please let me prove it, please, pretty please!"

"Well, I don't know," she said sceptically, "Seymour set a pretty high standard...."

"I _swear_ I'm better than him! In every way! Oh, you won't regret it! And if you do you can beat me up!"

She looked down at him and shook her head in pity. "Oh, all right. But this had better be good."

***

While all these unexpected pairings were happening back at Section One, a different kind of pairing was going on at the apartment of our glorious heroine. And as both Michael and Nikita lay basking in the afterglow of a wondrous lovemaking session, albeit a quite loud one, they were unaware of something that was lurking outside that was about to disturb their cuddling. Interrupt their post-coital hand dance that was once again starting the feelings of blissful ecstasy coursing throughout their bodies. And how could it not? Now that Michael had finally declared his undying love and devotion to his one true soul mate Nikita, the one who made his heart sing; who lit up his life; who gave him hope to carry on; who lit up his days and filled his nights with song. In fact, he could feel a song coming on that was almost perfect to describe the way he felt. And he was unable to control the crescendo that echoed throughout the room that emanated from his nose. And it seemed that his nose had employed a lead singer...

_'Wild Thing! You make my heart sing!  
You make everything... Groovy...  
Wild Thing! You make my heart sing!_

And as the song continued in the bedroom, our cameras pan to the hallway outside the apartment where something interesting was about to occur. It seems that there were at least 6 people milling outside, some carrying lights; one clutching a make-up kit; another holding a large camera upon his shoulder; another holding one of those clapper boards that you see in the movies -- or rather when a movie is being made. And another strange little man wearing khaki stubbies shorts and a matching short-sleeved shirt, and dirty great Doc Marten work boots that were covered in mud. He was standing in front of the camera and appeared to be waiting for something. Suddenly, the man with the clapper thingy shouted, "All right, quiet on the set", snapped the clapper thingy and looked at the camera as he said, "Crocodile Hunter, take 3!"

The strange little man in the khaki ensemble -- very drab I might add - looked straight into the camera lens and started talking in a soft whisper, "G'Day. I'm Steve Irwin, and today we have a real treat planned for ya. I'm on the trail here of the rare, extremely elusive and vicious Howling Monkey. And we have been told on good authority that this sweet, nasty, vicious little bugger, who is usually found in the deepest darkest corners of suburbia, is holed up in the room behind me. This little mongrel, usually ranging in colour from a really pretty black to a nice shade of white, can only usually be located through its distinct and piercing mating cry. It sorta sounds like a mixture of a ruptured cat and a squawking monkey. Geez, I hope he wants to be friends, cause I just hate to disturb the little nipper. But if we're really quiet, I'm sure that we can sneak up on it and not disturb it too much, by crikey! So shhh, let's be quiet and follow me and you'll be absolutely fly-struck at this truly rare and elusive animal."

And with that, the whole of Steve Irwin -- The Crocodile Hunter's entourage slowly and silently made their way unobtrusively into Nikita's apartment. Where our illustrious duo, completely turned on once again by the sensuousness of their hand-dance thingy, were about to make love again.

***

George stopped just outside the Perch and turned around, only to find himself unexpectedly alone. And that was the reason why Greg would never seriously replace Birkoff in the day-to-day running of Section's computers. Nephew or no nephew, if he couldn't keep up with the simplest of quick walks, then what good was he really? He couldn't even be counted on to spy on the correct files! But still, he _had_ managed to correctly uncover the truth about Quinn's parentage. But hang on; didn't he even stuff that up because he said it was Nikita that was his daughter? Or was it himself that had that Intel confused? Oh, it just was too complicated to think about for too long as it was giving him a headache. Besides, it didn't really matter in the end, because he would win. Him. George. Would win. Oh sure, so those Siamese twins Paul and Madeline thought that he thought that they thought that he thought that they thought that they would win. But they were wrong. Because he had a secret plan to take over the world. And it was so secret that even Red Cell was unaware of it. Not that they would know or anything. It wasn't like he was spying for them or anything. Perish the thought! And he'd cancel anyone that said different. Not that they would. Cause how would they know? Err, umm, no, I mean, well, you know what I mean. But George was suddenly distracted from his wayward thoughts by a familiar sounding voice coming from the Perch.

It sounded like...but it couldn't be...because she was dead...or was she...but he would have known... or would he... no, Michael would have told him...he was sure he would...or what if Michael was a clone.... No it couldn't be...but if it was...oh joy, oh rapture! He entered the Perch and stood dumbstruck in open-mouthed amazement at the sight that was before him. And his heart started to go pitter-patter. And he suddenly found that his mouth was dry, and the tears were just forming a little bit at the corners.

For there, seated before him with her arms around that creepy little C-Clone Jerome as he rested in her lap, was his beloved Adrian. And no...it couldn't be true...was that a storybook that she was reading to him from? It was! It was the Section-One issued, all-illustrated version of tales in the real world. The version that contained the dedication to Perry Bauer, and the acknowledgements done by David Fanning. My god, that volume was the most popular bedtime story book in ages! And she was reading it to Jerome with what looked to be a plate of half-eaten Oreo cookies and an empty glass that was milk stained in front of her. And Jerome himself was sleepily rubbing his eyes and had what appeared to be a milk moustache around his top lip. It made him look as sweet as one of those poster children for those 'Got Milk?' ads. Just what was wrong with this picture?

But it was definitely her, his Adrian. The woman who had started him upon the road to World Domination and total Oversight power! The woman who had taught him to be a man. To be the gentle, caring, powerful lover that he was! The woman who had borne his child, albeit not the one he thought it was. The woman who had made his life complete all those years ago. The woman who still caused him to wake at nights when he was alone in his big, dark Oversight bed, crying out in anguish because he missed her. And still, despite being pretty old himself -- although not as old as Walter or Adrian herself -- made him horny. Oh, the love of his life had returned! And he was filled with such joy, such bliss, that all he could do was crumple to the floor and crawl on his knees, hands outstretched, tears coursing down his ruddy, blood-shot cheeks, towards her crying piteously, "A-a-a-Adrian?"

Adrian looked up to see George moving towards her, quite quickly actually considering he was on his knees. But it seemed that in his younger operative days, George had been the World Champion Knee-Crawling-Arse-Kissing-Sycophant-of-the-Year 5 years in a row. A record that had yet to be broken by anyone in any Section anywhere. Startled, she stood hurriedly, knocking Jerome out of her lap straight onto his butt on the floor. And by the look in his really strangely evil death-ray eyes that flashed different colours, he was not happy! Adrian watched in stunned amazement as George made his way towards her, and when he reached her he threw his sobbing self against her legs, pushing his face into her crotch as he struggled to remain coherent.

She was unable to stop her own heart from fluttering delicately in her chest at the feelings that George aroused in her. But it could also have had something to do with the fact that after being cryogenically frozen for all these years, her internal organs were taking just a bit longer than her exterior to function normally. Or it could also have been that she too, had missed George. They had made quite a team as both lovers and Operations and second in charge until that awful Paul and Madeline had overthrown them. And she did so love the way that he would watch those so-called porn movies and then duplicate the moves that he saw. Just for Valentine operative training you understand. Not for any other reason. Anyway, Adrian found that she was strangely drawn to George once again. She had to have him, and it had to be now!

Reaching down, she patted George's head and ran her fingers through his hair, deliberately ignoring the fact that it was considerably thinner than she was used to, and that, with every stroke, fine strands of hair seemed to come away from his scalp to flutter gently to the ground. She could no longer control her passion for the man rubbing his face in her crotch and she fell to her knees in front of him and drew him closer for a passionate, tongue-filled embrace, mindless of the audience that was still in the Perch.

Aghast at the sight before him, Mick hurriedly arose from the seat he was sitting on, a shocked expression on his face as he screamed, "Blimey Charlie! Could you warn a person before you start doing that...Oh my god! Ewwwww!!!!!" And grabbing Aurora he hastily made his exit from the Perch and the sight of the two old operatives sucking face in front of him. All the while screaming as he made his exit "My eyes! My eyes! I've been blinded by the horrors that I have seen!" While Jerome just smiled that evil little smug smile that truly evil demon-children get as he silently made his exit as well.

***

Section One had always been a cold, stark place, where kindnesses were few and affection frowned upon. Where even the simplest of pleasures were prohibited, and where friendships -- and love -- inevitably turned to betrayal. The Section sucked the humanity out of everyone, rendering them into soulless cogs of its dreadful machinery. But something strange was now happening to its denizens -- the good ones, the not-so-good ones, the slightly evil ones, and even the really, really nasty evil ones. Something...inexplicable.... Something...overpowering.... Something...eerily eerie... Something...spookily scary.... Something...awesomely awesome.... Something...saucily sexy.... Something...well, just bloody strange!

***

"Ooooh, delicieux!" cried Andrea, as Davenport squeezed the contents of a bottle of chocolate syrup across her bare chest and proceeded to lick it off sloooooooowly.

She reached for the platinum blonde wig that he still had on -- even though he now wore nothing else -- and ripped it off, flinging it across the kitchen of the restaurant to land in the corner along with his crumpled hot pink waitress uniform. Giggling, she then began to spray whipped cream on his bald head, smearing and swirling it with her fingers.

He grinned evilly -- and boy, was he really getting good at evil grins! -- and reached for the menu that lay on the floor next to them. "Hmmmm," he said, "now that we've finished the chocolate sundae, what's next on the menu?"

Andrea snatched the menu away from him. "I'm zee customer, remember?" she tittered. "Ooooh, I want to try zee oysters on zee aff shell!"

Davenport chuckled in anticipation, licking his way down her stomach. "I think I have a taste for that myself," he said with a wicked look in his eyes.

"Oh, Mon Dieu!" she gasped as his busy tongue began to do its work. "I should eat out more often!"

***

"So," said Birkoff, looking away from Quinn in discomfort, "this is the server room. It used to be that only I was authorized to come in here, but I guess since you're being transferred we'll have to get you clearance as well."

"Hmmm," said Quinn, looking Birkoff up and down and licking her lips lasciviously. "It's awfully _hot_ in here!"

"Well, sure," replied Birkoff. "Think how many computers we have running in here."

Quinn shook her head in exasperation. He was bound and determined to ignore every hint she gave him! That was it. She would have to take matters into her own hands.

"That's not the kind of hot I meant, big boy," she said, pulling off her shirt as he gaped in open-mouthed (and is there any other kind?) astonishment.

Before he could even react, she seized him and pulled him toward her. "Defrag me, Seymour," she begged in a sultry whisper.

As he got into the spirit of things, his hands began to roam across her exposed skin. "Yeah," he whispered back, unconsciously slipping into his Jason accent, "I think you've got corrupted sectors that only I can fix."

***

Abby frowned and filed her nails, trying to ignore the pants and gasps from Greg as he squirmed above her.

"Say it! Say it!" he cried.

"Hmmm?" she asked, only halfway paying attention.

"Say it!" he gasped again.

"Oh, yeah," she said in a bored tone of voice. "Oh, yeah, you're so much better than Seymour. You're the king. Ooh, baby."

She then returned to filing her nails. Boy, she sure would rather be blowing something up right now than wasting her time with this novice. Oh, well. It couldn't last more than about a minute by the looks of things. She probably wouldn't even get her hair mussed.

Greg smiled to himself in smug satisfaction. _I_ knew _I was better than him_!, he thought. _I'm better than Seymour at everything_!

***

Elizabeth sighed and polished the gleaming metal surface of the White Room chair once again. She had truly enjoyed her brief taste of power when she and Henry commanded Section One -- and returning to the same old same old was just…not the same! Oh, not that she minded performing unspeakable acts of physical violence on people - it certainly had its droll moments -- but now she realised how much more there was to life!

She glanced over at Henry, who was on his knees, bent over, busy waxing the floor after cleaning up every drop of blood from their last guest. They took such pride in the spotless appearance of their workplace, after all. My! She hadn't ever noticed what a nice, firm butt he had before. It looked so delectable! How could she have not noticed, after fifteen years of working side by side with the man?

Suddenly, an idea possessed her, an idea so insane, so frivolous, so unprofessional, so...bad! She flung herself into the chair and strapped herself in with a noisy clang. When Henry looked up in surprise, she cracked a tiny smile that faintly raised the corners of her lips.

"Break me," she commanded in her flat voice, "by any means necessary."

***

Meanwhile, back in munitions, Walter and Belinda were lost in a reunion of their own. And as they stood leaning against the back wall of the secret area in the munitions section and kissed and cooed like long-separated, recently-reunited, returned-from-the-dead lovers do, those lovely little cartoon-like animals appeared from the wall again. You know the ones. Bambi and ducks and geese and lambs and Thumper and skunks and deer were all in a flurry again. And the surrey with the fringe on top was back. They all just stopped and stared and nudged each other and smiled and all just seemed as one to utter a collective sigh at the love they saw in front of them. And it seemed that this time there was no click-clack of CFM pumps approaching to disturb them from their voyeuristic reveries.

***

Nikita was surprised as a startled Michael suddenly stopped mid-thrust to cock his head and listen. "Michael, what's wrong?" she huskily enquired. Michael brought his eyes back to gaze at Nikita. His love, his one his only, the light of his life; who gave him strength to carry on...god, you know the rest!

Anyway, he looked back at Nikita and said, "Nothing, my love. I just thought that I heard a noise..." and as his voice trailed off, the sounds of whispered talking could be heard in the next room. He gently disentangled himself from her lustful embrace and putting his finger to his lips whispered "Shhh..." as he silently and stealthily made his way towards the voices. He stopped, frozen to the spot, as he recognised another Australian accent, this time a male's, and could make out the words. He listened with growing horror to what was being said as he heard....

"Shhh, jeez. I hope that the little bugger is friendly, as the last thing that I wanna do is disturb him too much and make him angry. Legend has it that he has a nasty, venomous bite and I don't like to tell you just how much I don't wanna get bitten again this week. I'm still recovering from that little love bite that the tiger snake gave me on the last show. It was quite lucky for me that the crew here had a gun and some bandages handy and Percy over there was more than happy to suck the venom outta my arse!" Just then, Steve Irwin jumped back as Michael rounded the corner in all his naked glory and delivered a perfect chop to the first cameraman's neck that felled him in one blow.

Jumping quickly to the left in another brilliantly choreographed move that was worthy of a highly skilled Section operative such as himself, he then proceeded to dispose of another two people -- the guy with the clapper thingy and the guy with the lights. He turned and stopped as the guy with the make-up pursed his lips and admiringly looked Michael up and down. His chiselled jaw, his rippling pectoral muscles, his washboard flat stomach that was, well, taut. His muscular thighs that tapered into firm calves that supported legs that were connected to a really tight butt. As the make-up guy -- Percy -- sighed his admiration, Michael executed a series of really fast hand movements that dazzled him and enabled Michael to tap him hard on the back of the head. Four down, two to go!

It seems that Steve Irwin still thought he was on camera and had continued with his rambling narrative "Crikey -- he's a big bugger! And not too friendly. Pity. So watch me now, as I have to wrestle him back into hibernation. This could get real ugly folks, as these rare Howling Monkeys don't take too lightly at being discovered!" and with that he launched himself at Michael in what would have to be the most stupid move of the story. Michael disdainfully flicked the back of his hand across Irwin's stupid thick Aussie skull and he went crashing to the floor in a dead faint. The final guy, seeing the mayhem that a highly skilled operative of Michael's calibre had delivered, promptly threw himself against the wall quite hard and slumped to the floor unconscious. Or maybe he had just read the script and knew that he couldn't win.

Hearing the commotion in her living room, Nikita came into the room wearing the bed sheet as a toga in a vain attempt to preserve her modesty. Which was pretty funny, cause most of the audience had already seen most of what she had to offer in that scene in the first episode of the second season! But wear it she did. And so she stopped in front of Michael and gently stroked his face and asked, "Are you alright?"

"Yes," he answered as he viewed the people collapsed on the floor around him. Noticing something strange, he moved towards one of the men and touched his face, and then looked startled when he was able to peel away his face.

Moving quickly from one man to the other, he peeled away all their faces to reveal that the whole crew were wearing masks. And before him in various states of death were Errol Sparks, David Fanning, Perry Bauer, Gregor Kessler and Alec Chandler. And it seemed that Egram Petrosian himself had impersonated Steve Irwin. Nikita stood in stunned silence as Michael picked up the phone and uttered the word "Housekeeping." And then he hung up. Turning towards her, he gently took her hand and guided her back to the bedroom. Now that that diversion was taken care of, they had some unfinished hand dancing to finish!

***

Walking hurriedly through Section's long, seemingly unending corridors, Mick was still muttering darkly about the awful things that his eyes had been subjected to. He couldn't seem to get the awful sight of Adrian and George locked in a lust-filled icky embrace out of his mind and every time he closed his eyes the vision was revisited. So he really was walking aimlessly with a less than enthusiastic Aurora dragging behind, and she was getting bored with all his mutterings. She wanted some action! And the sight before her of a bald-headed English git resplendent in a lime green silk shirt with matching red trim and silver spandex skin-tight pants was becoming, strangely, more and more attractive with every passing moment. She was at a loss to explain this attraction, cause he really wasn't her usual type -- well, he was cause he had a Section One/Oversight issued Platinum Gold credit card with unlimited credit after all and those guys were _always_ her type! No, this attraction seemed to go even deeper. And so she continued to follow Mick, not really listening to his ravings.

"Agent. Must get a new bloody agent! There was nothing in last week's script to warn me.... well, it just won't do, will it? I am an ACTOR after all, despite what that old lady said.... I demand respect...this is not an easy gig...bloody stupid...!" He was stopped mid-ramble as Aurora suddenly tugged on his hand and he found them entering an office that appeared to have a strange pattern of bullet holes on the wall. They had unwittingly entered Michael's empty office. Mick was perplexed as to why they were there until he looked at Aurora and his frown turned upside down and became a smile!

Aurora was walking towards him, undoing the buttons of her button pants as she said "Now Micky-poo let l'il ole me take real good care of you, big boy." And then he wasn't able to say anything cause she threw herself upon him and planted her lips on his.

***

Madeline paced her office with purposeful filled steps to try and relieve her frustration. It seems that despite all her best efforts there just wasn't a SOTW available for her son Jerome to torture and play with! Mission frequencies would have to be increased marginally to rectify that anomaly almost immediately. It just wouldn't do for the real Jones to find out that there were no bad guys being tortured in Section that week. Why, the leadership skills of Operations and herself might be called into question and there could be a review. And that wouldn't do at the moment, not with a defrosted Adrian on site.

But what was wrong with the picture of Madeline pacing back and forth in her office, was that _she_ was the one pacing and _Operations_ was standing in the one spot, with his hands behind his back, just staring at her plants. It was a completely different scenario to the usual one and showed just how screwed up things were at the moment. But Madeline couldn't stop her pacing, because she felt strange. She was slightly warm and sorta restless and was all jittery inside and felt really funny in her stomach whenever her eyes happened to glance Operations' way. And it seemed that her eyes were glancing his way more and more. She couldn't help it. He was so strong and handsome and sexy...well, she was only flesh and blood after all! Some had thought different over the years, but not him. Never him. He knew better. Only he knew the real her, the Madeline she kept well hidden from the world. Oh sure, she was a murderous, cold-hearted bitch who loved nothing better than to torture an unsuspecting victim and mess with Nikita's brain. But that was who she was. But he knew that underneath her exterior there was the fire within. And all it needed was a match to ignite it. She was suddenly startled out of her reverie by Paul's voice.

"Madeline! Is that...why, it looks like...well, it is...why, I can't believe it...but I should have known...but it looks like...yes, it is!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "You have dressed all your plants in different themes. There's one in a dinner suit. And another here in a tutu. And two together as a bride and groom. Oh, but I think I like this one here in a trench coat and dark glasses. Looks like a spy tree. Fascinating, simply fascinating. But then I always said that you paid more attention to these damn plants than you do to...well...." He stopped there and spun around to find Madeline standing and staring at him in horrified wonder. She looked just a little paler than usual, with a slightly glassy stare. But she looked so lovely tonight. Dammit, why did he want her so! But still, they were making a pretty penny on the Internet with their little venture, so it wasn't all bad.

Madeline slowly moved towards Paul as if in a dream. She could no longer deny her overwhelming passion for the man standing before her. She had to have him, and she had to have him now! Which unbeknownst to her, there was a lot of that kind of sentiment going around lately. But even if she did know, she wouldn't care. All she could see was the man before her -- albeit a fine figure of a slightly older man that he was. So she moved towards him and spoke in her bestest huskiest voice, "Paul...I feel like I'm living in twilight. I can't exist like this any longer. It's got to be either night or day. Ohhhh Paauulll.......I want you. Take me big boy! Take me now!" But she was pulled up short by the sight of Paul standing there with his hand raised and a closed look upon his face.

"Madeline, I don't take well to ultimatums. Let's not open things up again. We're both much too busy. And before you go on any further, the other night was not opening things up again. I slept with you, there's a difference. And I know, that sounds unusually cold, even for me." And he stood there and watched her as she just stood there in open-mouthed shock. Her mouth was sorta opening and closing and a few little squeaks were coming out as the full meaning of his words hit her. It was too late, he no longer wanted her!

Just then, Paul doubled over in laughter, slapping his hand upon his thigh as he said, "Ohhhhh boy, I really had you going there for a moment, eh? You should have seen your face! Oh, Madeline, it was a classic. Talk about getting my own back after all these years of begging! Oh man, that was a funny moment. Ah, Madeline, what are you doing? Now, now, it was just a little joke. You know what jokes are, don't you? Now come on, there's no need to look like that. Now, Madeline, put those pruning shears down. No, please, I really didn't mean it. I swear. Look, I didn't let it go on for too long, now did I?" And he stood trembling as she advanced before him, pruning shears at the ready to do some serious damage. Nobody laughs at her. Nobody!

But just before she was about to deliver the mutilating blow with the shears, that strange feeling overcame her again at the sight and nearness and smell of him. Oh god, what was she thinking? If she actually followed through with her blow, he would _never_ be able to satisfy her wild carnal desires. She would have to find other playmates for that. And she didn't want that at all. Because underneath it all she really did want him. And besides, there was always that special thrill of sleeping with the boss. Which was what women in the workplace craved everywhere. So instead of doing him damage, Madeline dropped the shears upon the floor and grabbed the lapels of his jacket. She pulled him forcefully towards her and pressed her lips to his, thrusting her tongue into his mouth.

Moving him backwards as her embrace became more and more passion-filled and urgent, she continued until he could no longer go any further and her desk was at their backs. Manoeuvring slightly, she pushed him onto the top of her desk and straddled him, all the while keeping her lips on his. And as Paul returned her ardour, just before they were both swept away by their passion, she had the forethought to reach up and switch on the web-cam feed. No good wasting an opportunity to make a bit more money after all.

***

And so, while all of our LFN cast, along with a range of unexpected special guests, were occupied, a small strange little eerie figure was just standing in Comm. With a spookily scary, evil-filled, eyes-flashing look upon his face. It was Jerome. And he stood there with a secret little evil smile upon his face, the one that demon-children seem to get and, now that we know who his parents are, looked a little bit like one of Madeline's secret little smiles, with his head cocked slightly to the left as if listening to something only a truly scary psychic demon-child could hear. And as he continued to smile, he mentally reached out and dialled the phone and then put it on speaker.

"Hello, Jones. It's me. Our plan has worked. I can sense that everyone that you suggested is now otherwise engaged. And I think that you will be happy with the results. I agree. This ending is much better than the one that TPTB had planned. At least this way those fanatical TR's and HR's will be satisfied. I've arranged it so that everyone gets the ending that they want. I will talk to you later." And then he hung up.

He continued to smile at himself as the camera panned backwards to capture his stance and overlapping the top of him just standing there, a montage of what the couples were doing at the moment flashed across him. Michael and Nikita. Davenport and Andrea. Henry and Elizabeth. Walter and Belinda. Mick and Aurora. Greg and Abby. George and Adrian. Birkoff and Quinn. Paul and Madeline. And as the camera continued to pull back the screen fades to black and the music swells as the end credits roll.

The End!


End file.
